Omar Khayyam — "The Fire that on my bosom burns, Is not the Fire of Hell; But the Fire of Love, …"

"For we are helpless pieces of the game He plays Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays."

"And still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water builds: Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!"

"Look to the Rose that blows about us—'Lo, Laughing,' she says, 'into the World I blow, At once the silken Tassel of my Purse Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'"

"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."

"And that inverted Bowl we call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help – for It As impotently moves as you or I."