Come, for the House of Hope is built on sand: bring wine, for the fabric of life is as weak as the wind.

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

Most men eddy about Here and there-eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die- Perish;-and no one asks Who or what they have been.

To live, to have so much ambition, to suffer, to cry, to fight and, at the end, forgetfulness ... as if I had never existed.

All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field.

Let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we shall die.

What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose?

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.

To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I They may take the trifle Termed mortality!

Such is the frailty of man that even where he makes the truest and most forcible impression-in the memory, in the heart of his beloved-, there also he must perish.