It Is The Nature Of Mortals To

The Man Who Does Ill, Ill Must Suffer Too.

The Man Who Boldly Transgresses, Amassing A Great Heap Unjustly--by Force, In Time, He Will Strike His Sail, When Trouble Seizes Him As The Yardarm Is Splintered. He Calls On Those Who Hear Nothing And He Struggles In The Midst Of The Whirling Waters. The God Laughs At The Hot-headed Man, Seeing Him, Who Boasted That This Would Never Happen, Exhausted By Distress Without Remedy And Unable To Surmount The Cresting Wave. He Wrecks The Happiness Of His Earlier Life On The Reef Of Justice, And He Perishes Unwept, Unseen.

But Who Can Describe The Overweening Pride Of Men? Or Women Mad With Passion, Reckless In Their Hearts, Soulmates To Every Kind Of Ruin That Befalls Us? Wild Passion, Unrestrained, Boundless, That Overcomes The Women, Perverts The Yoke Of Wedlock For Beasts And Men Alike.

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

I Warn The Marauder Dragging Plunder, Chaotic, Rich Beyond All Rights: He'll Strike His Sails, Harried At Long Last, Stunned When The Squalls Of Torment Break His Spars To Bits.