Nought Is There In Wealth That Serves

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

There's Only Few People Who Have Strength To Honor Someone's Achievement Without Envy.

The So-called Mother Of The Child Isn't The Child's Begetter, But Only A Sort Of Nursing Soil For The New-sown Seed. The Man, The One On Top, Is The True Parent, While She, A Stranger, Foster's A Stranger's Sprout.

The Man Who Does Ill, Ill Must Suffer Too.

Whoever Is Just Willingly And Without Compulsion Will Not Lack Happiness; He Will Never Be Utterly Destroyed.