A Knot You Are Of Damned Bloodsuckers.

You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of That.

Men Shut Their Doors Against A Setting Sun.

When A Wise Man Gives Thee Better Counsel, Give Me Mine Again.

Wert Thou As Far As That Vast Shore Washed With The Farthest Sea, I Would Adventure For Such Merchandise.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?