Nor Does Night Conceal Men's Deeds Of

. . . It Is Yours Women's To Be Silent And Stay Within Doors.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.

Unjustly Men Hate Death, Which Is The Greatest Defence Against Their Many Ills.

You Have Been Trapped In The Inescapable Net Of Ruin By Your Own Want Of Sense.

The High Strength Of Men Knows No Content With Limitation.