Each Man Has His Fancy.

We Consume Our Tomorrows Fretting About Our Yesterdays.

Each Man Has His Own Desires; All Do Not Possess The Same Inclinations.

Nothing Can Be Born Of Nothing; Nothing Can Be Resolved Into Nothing.

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.

Our Life Is Our Own To-day, To-morrow You Will Be Dust, A Shade, And A Tale That Is Told. Live Mindful Of Death; The Hour Flies.