It Is A Profitable Thing, If One

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

I Pray The Gods Some Respite From The Weary Task Of This Long Year's Watch That Lying On The Atreidae's Roof On Bended Arm, Dog- Like, I Have Kept, Marking The Conclave Of All Night's Stars, Those Potentates Blazing In The Heavens That Bring Winter And Summer To Mortal Men, The Constellations, When They Wane, When They Rise.

The Anvil Of Justice Is Planted Firm, And Fate Who Makes The Sword Does The Forging In Advance.

It Is The Nature Of Mortals To Kick A Fallen Man.

The One Knowing What Is Profitable, And Not The Man Knowing Many Things, Is Wise.