Everyone's Quick To Blame The Alien.

Be It Mine To Draw From Wisdom's Fount, Pure As It Flows, That Calm Of Soul Which Virtue Only Knows.

I Say You Must Not Win An Unjust Case By Oaths.

Ah, Lives Of Men! When Prosperous They Glitter - Like A Fair Picture; When Misfortune Comes - A Wet Sponge At One Blow Has Blurred The Painting.

Since Long I've Held Silence A Remedy For Harm.

The Gods At Will Can Shape A Gladder Strain, And From The Lamentations At The Graveside, A Song Of Triumph May Arise.