Mistrust All Men, And Slay Him Whom

Time After Time Have Nations, Ay, And Rich And Strong Nations, Learned In The Arts, Been, And Passed Away To Be Forgotten, So That No Memory Of Them Remains. This Is But One Of Several; For Time Eats Up The Works Of Man.

It Is Not Wise To Neglect The Present For The Future, For Who Knows What The Future Will Be?

Memory Haunts Me From Age To Age, And Passion Leads Me By The Hand--evil Have I Done, And With Sorrow Have I Made Acquaintance From Age To Age, And From Age To Age Evil Shall I Do, And Sorrow Shall I Know Till My Redemption Comes.

And Now Let Us Love And Take That Which Is Given Us, And Be Happy; For In The Grave There Is No Love And No Warmth, Nor Any Touching Of The Lips. Nothing Perchance, Or Perchance But Bitter Memories Of What Might Have Been.

The Acorn Of Ambition Often Grows Into An Oak From Which Men Hang.