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Summary:

𝑀𝓊𝓈𝒾𝒸 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔
𝒶 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔, 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓅𝑒.
𝐼𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁.

𝒜𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝒷𝑜𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒
𝓅𝓊𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓎𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓁𝑒.
𝒫𝒾𝑒𝓇𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒,
𝒾𝓉 𝓊𝓃𝓈𝓅𝑜𝑜𝓁𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒶𝓁.

𝒪𝒻 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝑒𝓅𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒹’𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽
𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒽.
𝐹𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝑒𝒸𝒽𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒹𝓈
𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒾𝒸𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜 𝒻𝓁𝓊𝓉𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑒𝓈.

𝒮𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈,
𝒶 𝒽𝒶𝓁𝒻-𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓂𝑒𝓁𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝓎 𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓃.
𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑜𝓉,
𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈,
𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒.
𝒜𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝒸𝒽𝑜 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝒷𝑜𝑒,
𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈.

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