Time, Waxing Old, Doth All Things Purify.

It Is An Ill Thing To Be The First To Bring News Of Ill.

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

Overly Persuasive A Woman's Ordinance Spreads Far, Traveling Fast; But Fast Dying A Rumor Voiced By A Woman Perishes.

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.

Time In His Aging Overtakes All Things Alike.