A Guest Never Forgets The Host Who

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

Come Then, Put Away Your Sword In Its Sheath, And Let Us Two Go Up Into My Bed So That, Lying Together In The Bed Of Love, We May Then Have Faith And Trust In Each Other.

It Is Tedious To Tell Again Tales Already Plainly Told.

Have Patience, Heart.

I Would Rather Be A Serf In A Poor Man's House And Be Above Ground Than Reign Among The Dead.