Adventurer: He That Goes To Meet Whatever

Truly Wealth, Which Men Spend All Their Lives In Acquiring, Is A Valueless Thing At The Last.

Time After Time Have Nations, Ay, And Rich And Strong Nations, Learned In The Arts, Been, And Passed Away To Be Forgotten, So That No Memory Of Them Remains. This Is But One Of Several; For Time Eats Up The Works Of Man.

We May Taste Of Every Turn Of Chance - Now Rule As Kings, Now Serve As Slaves; Now Love, Now Hate; Now Prosper, And Now Perish. But Still, Through All, We Are The Same; For This Is The Marvel Of Identity.

Women Love The Last Blow As Well As The Last Word, And When They Fight For Love They Are Pitiless As A Wounded Buffalo.

And Now Let Us Love And Take That Which Is Given Us, And Be Happy; For In The Grave There Is No Love And No Warmth, Nor Any Touching Of The Lips. Nothing Perchance, Or Perchance But Bitter Memories Of What Might Have Been.