I Would Rather Be A Serf In

Be Still My Heart; Thou Hast Known Worse Than This.

It Is Not Right To Exult Over Slain Men.

But Curb Thou The High Spirit In Thy Breast, For Gentle Ways Are Best, And Keep Aloof From Sharp Contentions.

Most Grievous Of All Deaths It Is To Die Of Hunger.

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.