Old Men Are Children Once Again A

Report Uttered By The People Is Everywhere Of Great Power.

In Every Tyrant's Heart There Springs In The End This Poison, That He Cannot Trust A Friend.

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

Words Are Healers Of The Sick Tempered.

Justice Shines In Very Smoky Homes, And Honors The Righteous; But The Gold-spangled Mansions Where The Hands Are Unclean She Leaves With Eyes Averted.