There Is A Limit To The Best

The Seed Of Mortals Broods O'er Passing Things, And Hath Nought Surer Than The Smoke-cloud's Shadow.

They Sent Forth Men To Battle, But No Such Men Return; And Home, To Claim Their Welcome, Come Ashes In An Urn

Time Brings All Things To Pass.

Art Is Far Feebler Than Necessity.

The People's Awe And Innate Fear Will Hold Injustice Back By Day, By Night, So Long As The People Leave The Laws Intact, Just As They Are: Muddy The Cleanest Spring, And All You'll Have To Drink Is Muddy Water.