But From The Good Health Of The

You Have Been Trapped In The Inescapable Net Of Ruin By Your Own Want Of Sense.

Since Long I've Held Silence A Remedy For Harm.

It Is Always The Season For The Old To Learn.

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

The One Knowing What Is Profitable, And Not The Man Knowing Many Things, Is Wise.