What Mighty Woes To Thy Imperial Race

The Fates Have Given Mankind A Patient Soul.

All Men Owe Honor To The Poets - Honor And Awe; For They Are Dearest To The Muse Who Puts Upon Their Lips The Ways Of Life.

Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich In Barren Fame Return.

One Who Journeying Along A Way He Knows Not, Having Crossed A Place Of Drear Extent, Before Him Sees A River Rushing Swiftly Toward The Deep, And All Its Tossing Current White With Foam, And Stops And Turns, And Measures Back His Way.

Be Both A Speaker Of Words And A Doer Of Deeds.