We Consume Our Tomorrows Fretting About Our

The Stomach Is The Teacher Of The Arts And The Dispenser Of Invention.

Oh, The Cares Of Men! How Much Emptiness There Is In Human Concerns!

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.

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.]

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