The field of doom bears death as its harvest.
Neither a life of anarchy nor a life under a despot should you praise. To all that lies in the middle has a god given excellence.
Sweet is a grief well ended.
There is no avoidance in delay.
For somehow this is tyranny's disease, to trust no friends.
For the poison of hatred seated near the heart doubles the burden for the one who suffers the disease; he is burdened with his own sorrow, and groans on seeing another's happiness.