They sent forth men to battle, But no such men return; And home, to claim their welcome, Come ashes in an urn

In every tyrant's heart there springs in the end this poison, that he cannot trust a friend.

They sent forth men to battle, But no such men return; And home, to claim their welcome, Come ashes in an urn

Few men have the natural strength to honor a friend's success without envy.

For not many men, the proverb saith, can love a friend whom fortune prospereth unenvying.

I warn the marauder dragging plunder, chaotic, rich beyond all rights: he'll strike his sails, harried at long last, stunned when the squalls of torment break his spars to bits.

Obedience, you know, is Good Luck's mother, wedded to Salvation, they say.