For The Lips Of Zeus Do Not

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

For There Below Ground Sits The Dark God, Strong To Call Men To Judgment; He Sees All, And Writes It In His Memory.

For In Pure Maidens, Knowing Not The Marriage-bed, The Glance Of The Eyes Sinks From Shame.

Alas, Poor Men, Their Destiny. When All Goes Well A Shadow Will Overthrow It. If It Be Unkind One Stroke Of A Wet Sponge Wipes All The Picture Out.

Jars Neither Of Wine Nor Of Water Shall Fail In The Houses Of The Rich.