To Be Free Of Belief And Unbelief

This Body Is A Tent Which For A Space Does The Pure Soul With Kingly Presence Grace; When He Departs, Comes The Tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes It, And Moves To A New Halting-place.

A Drink Is Shorter Than A Tale

We Are In Truth But Pieces On This Chess Board Of Life, Which In The End We Leave, Only To Drop One By One Into The Grave Of Nothingness.

He Who Has One Enemy Shall Meet Him Everywhere.

Indeed The Idols I Have Loved So Long, Have Done My Credit In This World Much Wrong; Have Drowned My Glory In A Shallow Cup, And Sold My Reputation For A Song.