Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.
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"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."
"Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?"
"Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—'While you live, Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.'"
"For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go."
"Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit."
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