It's A Man's Jobno Place For Women's

Time, Waxing Old, Doth All Things Purify.

The Cure Is In The House, Not Brought By Other Hands From Distant Places, But By Its Own, In Agony And Blood.

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

The Act Of Evil Breeds Others To Follow, Young Sins In Its Own Likeness.

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