I Have Learned To Hate All Traitors,

Report Uttered By The People Is Everywhere Of Great Power.

But When The Dust Has Drunk The Blood Of Men, No Resurrection Comes For One Who's Dead.

Fear Hurries On My Tongue Through Want Of Courage.

I, Schooled In Misery, Know Many Purifying Rites, And I Know Where Speech Is Proper And Where Silence.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.