If It Doesn't Have Siamese

The Long Historian Of My Country's Woes.

All Things Are In The Hand Of Heaven, And Folly, Eldest Of Jove's Daughters, Shuts Men's Eyes To Their Destruction. She Walks Delicately, Not On The Solid Earth, But Hovers Over The Heads Of Men To Make Them Stumble Or To Ensnare Them.

And Woe Succeeds Woe.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

Which Would You Rather Be, A Conqueror In The Olympic Games, Or The Crier That Proclaims Who Are Conquerors?