Truly Even He Errs That Is Wiser

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

I Have Learned To Hate All Traitors, And There Is No Disease That I Spit On More Than Treachery.

For Sufferers It Is Sweet To Know Before-hand Clearly The Pain That Still Remains For Them.

For Not Many Men, The Proverb Saith, Can Love A Friend Whom Fortune Prospereth Unenvying.

They Who Prosper Take On Airs Of Vanity.