The Rule Of The Many

There Is The Heat Of Love, The Pulsing Rush Of Longing, The Lover’s Whisper, Irresistible—magic To Make The Sanest Man Go Mad.

Lay Ye Down The Golden Chain From Heaven, And Pull At Its Inferior Links Both Goddesses And Gods.

I Would Rather Be Tied To The Soil As A Serf... Than Be King Of All These Dead And Destroyed.

But Curb Thou The High Spirit In Thy Breast, For Gentle Ways Are Best, And Keep Aloof From Sharp Contentions.

The Chance Of War Is Equal, And The Slayer Oft Is Slain.