The Man Who Does Ill, Ill Must

There Is No Pain So Great As The Memory Of Joy In Present Grief.

A Man Dies Not For The Many Wounds That Pierce His Breast, Unless It Be That Life's End Keep Pace With Death, Nor By Sitting On His Hearth At Home Doth He The More Escape His Appointed Doom.

For The Lips Of Zeus Do Not Know How To Lie, But Bring To Fulfilment Every Word.

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

My Will Is Mine...i Shall Not Make It Soft For You.