The Potter, having labor’d long and sore In many a Wheel, turns out at last no more Than a broken Pot, which he throws away, And then begins his work again as before.
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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."
"What, without asking, hither hurried whence? And, without asking, whither hurried hence! Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that Hour of thine!"
"Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore – but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My impulsive spirit to the wind I threw."
"Give me wine, for wine is the essence of life, and the antidote to sorrow."
"A Moment's Halt—a momentary taste Of Being from the Well amid the Waste—And lo! the Phantom Caravan has reach'd The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!"
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