In Every Tyrant's Heart There Springs In

Who Apart From The Gods Is Without Pain For His Whole Lifetime's Length?

From A Small Seed A Mighty Trunk May Grow.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.

Destiny Waits Alike For The Free Man As Well As For Him Enslaved By Another's Might.

And Now It Goes As It Goes And Where It Ends Is Fate. And Neither By Singeing Flesh Nor Tipping Cups Of Wine Nor Shedding Burning Tears Can You Enchant Away The Rigid Fury.