The Man Who Does Ill, Ill Must

They Sent Forth Men To Battle, But No Such Men Return; And Home, To Claim Their Welcome, Come Ashes In An Urn

Base Men Who Prosper Are Unenviable.

Truly Upon Mortals Cometh Swift Of Foot Their Evil And His Offence Upon Him That Trespasseth Against Right.

The Words Of Truth Are Simple.

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.