Servants, When Their Lords No Longer Sway,

Fate Is The Same For The Man Who Holds Back, The Same If He Fights Hard. We Are All Held In A Single Honor, The Brave With The Weaklings. A Man Dies Still If He Has Done Nothing, As The One Who Has Done Much.

And His Good Wife Will Tear Her Cheeks In Grief, His Sons Are Orphans And He, Soaking The Soil Red With His Own Blood, He Rots Away Himself-more Birds Than Women Flocking Round His Body!

By Their Own Follies They Perished, The Fools.

Thou Shalt Not Horn In On Thy Husbands Racket

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows; One Should Our Interests And Our Passions Be, My Friend Must Hate The Man That Injures Me.