Everyone Is Ready To Speak Ill Of

This Is The Law: Blood Spilt Upon The Ground Cries Out For More.

Of All The Gods, Death Only Craves Not Gifts: Nor Sacrifice, Nor Yet Drink-offering Poured Avails; No Altars Hath He, Nor Is Soothed By Hymns Of Praise. From Him Alone Of All The Powers Of Heaven Persuasion Holds Aloof.

In Every Tyrant's Heart There Springs In The End This Poison, That He Cannot Trust A Friend.

Rumours Voiced By Women Come To Nothing.

Let There Be Wealth Without Tears; Enough For The Wise Man Who Will Ask No Further.