For In Pure Maidens, Knowing Not The

Art Is Far Feebler Than Necessity.

When The Black And Mortal Blood Of Man Has Fallen To The Ground ... Who Then Can Sing Spells To Call It Back Again?

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.

I Have Learned To Hate All Traitors, And There Is No Disease That I Spit On More Than Treachery.

Old Men Are Children Once Again A Dream That Sways And Wavers Into The Hard Light Of Day.