"Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me—in vain!"

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."

"Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit."

"A Moment's Halt—a momentary taste Of Being from the Well amid the Waste—And lo! the Phantom Caravan has reach'd The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!"

"Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence!"