Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

The entire world shall be populous with that action which saves one soul from despair.

Living Life Tomorrow's fate, though thou be wise, Thou canst not tell nor yet surmise; Pass, therefore, not today in vain, For it will never come again.

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.

Drink! For you know not whence you came nor why.

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.

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.