Praise Me Not Too Much, Nor Blame

A Little Child Born Yesterday A Thing On Mother's Milk And Kisses Fed.

Everything Flows And Nothing Stays.

There Is Satiety In All Things, In Sleep, And Love-making, In The Loveliness Of Singing And The Innocent Dance.

Men Grow Tired Of Sleep, Love, Singing And Dancing Sooner Than Of War.

The Leader, Mingling With The Vulgar Host, Is In The Common Mass Of Matter Lost.