To The Fool-king Belongs The World.

Lose Not Yourself In A Far Off Time, Seize The Moment That Is Thine.

The Dictates Of The Heart Are The Voice Of Fate.

I Feel An Army In My Fist.

Death Is A Mighty Mediator. There All The Flames Of Rage Are Extinguished, Hatred Is Appeased, And Angelic Pity, Like A Weeping Sister, Bends With Gentle And Close Embrace Over The Funeral Urn.

It Is Criminal To Steal A Purse, Daring To Steal A Fortune, A Mark Of Greatness To Steal A Crown. The Blame Diminishes As The Guilt Increases.