The Evils Of Mortals Are Manifold; Nowhere

Overly Persuasive A Woman's Ordinance Spreads Far, Traveling Fast; But Fast Dying A Rumor Voiced By A Woman Perishes.

There Is Advantage In The Wisdom Won From Pain.

Justice Shines In Very Smoky Homes, And Honors The Righteous; But The Gold-spangled Mansions Where The Hands Are Unclean She Leaves With Eyes Averted.

Bonds And The Pangs Of Hunger Are Excellent Prophet Doctors For The Wits.

I Pray The Gods Some Respite From The Weary Task Of This Long Year's Watch That Lying On The Atreidae's Roof On Bended Arm, Dog- Like, I Have Kept, Marking The Conclave Of All Night's Stars, Those Potentates Blazing In The Heavens That Bring Winter And Summer To Mortal Men, The Constellations, When They Wane, When They Rise.