Memory Is The Mother Of All Wisdom.

God Loves To Help Him Who Strives To Help Himself.

Watchful Are The Gods Of All Hands With Slaughter Stained. The Black Furies Wait, And When A Man Has Grown By Luck, Not Justice, Great, With Sudden Overturn Of Chance They Wear Him To A Shade, And, Cast Down To Perdition, Who Shall Save Him?

Death Is Easier Than A Wretched Life; And Better Never To Have Born Than To Live And Fare Badly.

A God Implants In Mortal Guilt Whenever He Wants Utterly To Confound A House.

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.