Plenty has made me poor. — Ovid

No species remains constant: that great renovator of matter

Nature, endlessly fashions new forms from old: there’s nothing

in the whole universe that perishes, believe me; rather

it renews and varies its substance. What we describe as birth

is no more than incipient change from a prior state, while dying

is merely to quit it. Though the parts may be transported

hither and thither, the sum of all matter is constant.

What, however, is my fault? Unless to have played can be called a fault, unless it can be called a fault to have loved.

Your right arm is useful in the battle; but when it comes to thinking you need my guidance. You have force without intelligence; while mine is the care for to-morrow. You are a good fighter; but is I who help Atrides select the time of fighting. Your value is in your body only; mine, in mind. And, as much as he who directs the ship surpasses him who only rows it, as much as the general exceeds the common soldier, so much greater am I than you. For in these bodies of ours the heart is of more value than the hand; all our real living is in that.