Self-will In The Man Who Does Not

Truth Is Always The First Casualty Of War.

But I Will Place This Carefully Fed Pig Within The Crackling Oven; And, I Pray, What Nicer Dish Can E'er Be Given To Man.

Bronze Is The Mirror Of Form, Wine Of The Heart.

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.

Success Is Man's God.