Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why; Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits-and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

If I don't enjoy myself now, when shall I?

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all Thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!