They That Have Voice Of Lions And

Bloody Instructions, Which, Being Taught, Return To Plague The Inventor.

The Sweets We Wish For, Turn To Loathed Sours, Even In The Moment That We Call Them Ours.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

The Hideous God Of War.

Whatever Praises Itself But In The Deed, Devours The Deed In The Praise.