It Is Always The Season For The

Words Are The Physicians Of A Mind Diseased.

Know Not To Revere Human Things Too Much.

In Every Tyrant's Heart There Springs In The End This Poison, That He Cannot Trust A Friend.

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.

Unjustly Men Hate Death, Which Is The Greatest Defence Against Their Many Ills.