Suffering Brings Experience.

For This Our Task Hath Fate Spun Without Fail To Last For Ever Sure, That We On Man Weighed Down With Deeds Of Hate Should Follow Till The Earth His Life Immure. Nor When He Dies Can He Boast Of Being Truly Free.

Bronze Is The Mirror Of Form, Wine Of The Heart.

Joy Steals Upon Me, Such Joy As Calls Forth Tears.

Watchful Are The Gods Of All Hands With Slaughter Stained. The Black Furies Wait, And When A Man Has Grown By Luck, Not Justice, Great, With Sudden Overturn Of Chance They Wear Him To A Shade, And, Cast Down To Perdition, Who Shall Save Him?

Truly Upon Mortals Cometh Swift Of Foot Their Evil And His Offence Upon Him That Trespasseth Against Right.