When We Sleep The Soul Is Lit

Arrogance Is Truly The Child Of Impiety, But From Health Of Soul Comes Happiness, Dear To All, Much Prayed For.

I Warn The Marauder Dragging Plunder, Chaotic, Rich Beyond All Rights: He'll Strike His Sails, Harried At Long Last, Stunned When The Squalls Of Torment Break His Spars To Bits.

God Loves To Help Him Who Strives To Help Himself.

The Act Of Evil Breeds Others To Follow, Young Sins In Its Own Likeness.

So In The Libyan Fable It Is Told That Once An Eagle, Stricken With A Dart, Said, When He Saw The Fashion Of The Shaft: With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.