. . . It Is Yours Women's

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 Reward Of Pain Is Experience.

Necessity Is Stronger Far Than Art.

Don't You Know This, That Words Are Doctors To A Diseased Temperment?

When A Man Dies, Flesh Is Frayed And Broken In The Fire, But Not His Will.