With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others'

Suffering Brings Experience.

But When The Dust Has Drunk The Blood Of Men, No Resurrection Comes For One Who's Dead.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

For Not Many Men, The Proverb Saith, Can Love A Friend Whom Fortune Prospereth Unenvying.