Our Life Is Our Own To-day, To-morrow

Thou Art Moist And Soft Clay; Thou Must Instantly Be Shaped By The Glowing Wheel. [lat., Udum Et Molle Lutum Es: Nunc, Nunc Properandus Et Acri Fingendus Sine Fine Rota.]

Please Not Thyself The Flattering Crowd To Hear; 'tis Fulsome Stuff, To Please Thy Itching Ear. Survey Thy Soul, Not What Thou Does Appear, But What Thou Art.

Out Of Nothing Can Come, And Nothing Can Become Nothing.

Oh, The Cares Of Men! How Much Emptiness There Is In Human Concerns!

Each Man Has His Fancy.