But Listen To Me First And Swear

I Didn't Lie! I Just Created Fiction With My Mouth!

Close To The Gates A Spacious Garden Lies, From The Storms Defended And Inclement Skies; Four Acres Was The Allotted Space Of Ground, Fenc'd With A Green Enclosure All Around. Tall Thriving Trees Confessed The Fruitful Mold: The Reddening Apple Ripens Here To Gold, Here The Blue Fig With Luscious Juice Overflows, With Deeper Red The Full Pomegranate Glows, The Branch Here Bends Beneath The Weighty Pear, And Verdant Olives Flourish Round The Year.

Immortals Are Never Alien To One Another.

I Would Rather Be A Serf In A Poor Man's House And Be Above Ground Than Reign Among The Dead.

A Decent Boldness Ever Meets With Friends.