When We Sleep The Soul Is Lit

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

May Dawn, As The Proverb Goes, Bring Happy Tidings Coming From Her Mother Night.

Jars Neither Of Wine Nor Of Water Shall Fail In The Houses Of The Rich.

For A Deadly Blow Let Him Pay With A Deadly Blow: It Is For Him Who Has Done A Deed To Suffer.

Take Courage; Pain's Extremity Soon Ends.