The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.
A hair divides what is false and true.
Oh, the brave Music of a distant drum!
You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; favored old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.
The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.
Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent doctor and saint, and heard great argument about it and about: but evermore came out by the same door as in I went.
There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.
'Tis all a Checker-board of Nights and days where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, and one by one back in the Closet lays.
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.
And that inverted bowl we call The Sky, where under crawling coop't we live and die, lift not thy hands to It for help -- for it rolls impotently on as thou or I.