The Rich Have No More Of The

I Sing The Progress Of A Deathless Soul.

I Do Not Love A Man, Except I Hate His Vices, Because Those Vices Are The Enemies, And The Destruction Of That Friend Whom I Love.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

To An Incompetent Judge I Must Not Lie, But I May Be Silent; To A Competent I Must Answer.

All Our Life Is But A Going Out To The Place Of Execution, To Death.