They Sent Forth Men To Battle, But

You Have Been Trapped In The Inescapable Net Of Ruin By Your Own Want Of Sense.

I Pray The Gods Some Respite From The Weary Task Of This Long Year's Watch That Lying On The Atreidae's Roof On Bended Arm, Dog- Like, I Have Kept, Marking The Conclave Of All Night's Stars, Those Potentates Blazing In The Heavens That Bring Winter And Summer To Mortal Men, The Constellations, When They Wane, When They Rise.

Be It Mine To Draw From Wisdom's Fount, Pure As It Flows, That Calm Of Soul Which Virtue Only Knows.

Many Among Men Are They Who Set High The Show Of Honor, Yet Break Justice.

It Is A Light Thing For Whoever Keeps His Foot Outside Trouble To Advise And Counsel Him That Suffers.