𝙄 𝙢𝙚𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙦𝙪𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙,
𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙—“𝙏𝙬𝙤 𝙫𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚
𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙩. . . . 𝙉𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙙,
𝙃𝙖𝙡𝙛 𝙨𝙪𝙣𝙠 𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨, 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣,
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙥, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙,
𝙏𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙨𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙥𝙩𝙤𝙧 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙
𝙒𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨,
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙙;
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧:
𝙈𝙮 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙊𝙯𝙮𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙨, 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨;
𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨, 𝙮𝙚 𝙈𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙮, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧!
𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨. 𝙍𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙮
𝙊𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙡 𝙒𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙠, 𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙚
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙡 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮.”