VIII — Of the Quest of the Golden Fleece

But the Brute said in his breast, “Till the mills I grind have ceased, The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast!

“On the strong and cunning few Cynic favors I will strew; I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies; From the patient and the low I will take the joys they know; They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go. Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise; Brother’s blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies.”