'twas But My Tongue, 'twas

May He Die With No Joy At His End, The Man Who Won't Be Troubled To Unlock The Keys Of His Heart And Make A Friend.

Time Will Discover Everything To Posterity; It Is A Babbler, And Speaks Even When No Question Is Put.

To Die With Glory, If One Has To Die At All, Is Still, I Think, Pain For The Dier.

They Who Are Sad Find Somehow Sweetness In Tears.

Who Knoweth If To Die Be But To Live, And That Called Life By Mortals Be But Death?