The Journey Is Its Own Reward.

Men Grow Tired Of Sleep, Love, Singing And Dancing Sooner Than Of War.

Like The Generations Of Leaves, The Lives Of Mortal Men. Now The Wind Scatters The Old Leaves Across The Earth, Now The Living Timber Bursts With The New Buds And Spring Comes Round Again. And So With Men: As One Generation Comes To Life, Another Dies Away.

Let Him Submit To Me! Only The God Of Death Is So Relentless, Death Submits To No One—so Mortals Hate Him Most Of All The Gods. Let Him Bow Down To Me! I Am The Greater King, I Am The Elder-born, I Claim—the Greater Man.

To Heal Divisions, To Relieve The Oppress'd, In Virtue Rich; In Blessing Others, Bless'd.

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.