Out Of Nothing Can Come, And Nothing

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.

Lives There The Man With Soul So Dead As To Disown The Wish To Merit The People's Applause, And Having Uttered Words Worthy To Be Kept In Cedar Oil To Latest Times, To Leave Behind Him Rhymes That Dread Neither Herrings Nor Frankincense.

It Is Pleasing To Be Pointed At With The Finger And To Have It Said, "there Goes The Man." [lat., At Pulchrum Est Digito Monstrari Et Dicier His Est.]

Is Any Man Free Except The One Who Can Pass His Life As He Pleases?

Quantum Est In Rebus Inane! How Much Folly There Is In Human Affairs.