A Quiet Conscience Makes One

He Who Grown Aged In This World Of Woe, In Deeds, Not Years, Piercing The Depths Of Life, So That No Wonder Waits Him.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

What Is Death, So It Be But Glorious? 'tis A Sunset; And Mortals May Be Happy To Resemble The Gods But In Decay.