𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌,
𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇,
𝖭𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗒 𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌,
𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖬𝗎𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗈'𝗌,
𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗒,
𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇?
𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍,
𝖭𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁,
𝖲𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇,
𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌.
You get what you are given, you only receive to yourself what you deserve.