Even The Bravest Cannot Fight Beyond His

Sinks My Sad Soul With Sorrow To The Grave.

That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads Of Death Through The Lives Of Mortal Men, An All To Make A Song For Those To Come.

Wine Lead To Folly, Making Even The Wise To Laugh Immoderately, To Dance, And To Utter What Had Better Have Been Kept Silent.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, Swing To The Work, We Must - Just Two As We Are - If We Hope To Make Some Headway. The Worst Cowards, Banded Together, Have Their Power, But You And I Have Got The Skill To Fight Their Best.

We Mortals Hear Only The News, And Know Nothing At All.