Nought Is There In Wealth That Serves

My Will Is Mine...i Shall Not Make It Soft For You.

You Have Been Trapped In The Inescapable Net Of Ruin By Your Own Want Of Sense.

Of All The Gods, Death Only Craves Not Gifts: Nor Sacrifice, Nor Yet Drink-offering Poured Avails; No Altars Hath He, Nor Is Soothed By Hymns Of Praise. From Him Alone Of All The Powers Of Heaven Persuasion Holds Aloof.

Be It Mine To Draw From Wisdom's Fount, Pure As It Flows, That Calm Of Soul Which Virtue Only Knows.

Art Is Far Feebler Than Necessity.