To Labour Is The Lot Of Man

Friend, Many And Many A Dream Is Mere Confusion A Cobweb Of No Consequence At All. Two Gates For Ghostly Dreams There Are: One Gateway Of Honest Horn, And One Of Ivory. Issuing By The Ivory Gate Are Dreams Of Glimmering Illusion, Fantasies, But Those That Come Through Solid Polished Horn May Be Borne Out, If Mortals Only Know Them.

Clanless, Lawless, Homeless Is He Who Is In Love With Civil War, That Brutal Ferocious Thing.

Like Leaves On Trees The Race Of Man Is Found,- Now Green In Youth, Now Withering On The Ground; Another Race The Following Spring Supplies: They Fall Successive, And Successive Rise.

The Life, Which Others Pay, Let Us Bestow, And Give To Fame What We To Nature Owe.

Evil Deeds Do Not Prosper; The Slow Man Catches Up With The Swift.