They Who Prosper Take On Airs Of

Who, Except The Gods, Can Live Time Through Forever Without Any Pain?

Call No Man Happy Till He Is Dead.

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

Report Uttered By The People Is Everywhere Of Great Power.

Jars Neither Of Wine Nor Of Water Shall Fail In The Houses Of The Rich.