I wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell.
The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing-Oh, make haste!
The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.
Fools, your reward is neither here nor there.
To-day is thine to spend, but not to-morrow; Counting on morrows breedeth bankrupt sorrow: O squander not this breath that Heaven hath lent thee; Make not too sure another breath to borrow.
Why ponder thus the future to foresee, and jade thy brain to vain perplexity? Cast off thy care, leave Allah’s plans to him – He formed them all without consulting thee.