Our life is our own to-day, to-morrow you will be dust, a shade, and a tale that is told. Live mindful of death; the hour flies.
And don't consult anyone's opinions but your own.
Things fit only to give weight to smoke.
We consume our tomorrows fretting about our yesterdays.
Nothing can be born of nothing; nothing can be resolved into nothing.
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.