Is Then Thy Knowledge Of No Value,

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

The Stomach Is The Teacher Of The Arts And The Dispenser Of Invention.

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.

Lives There The Man With Soul So Dead As To Disown The Wish To Merit The People's Applause, And Having Uttered Words Worthy To Be Kept In Cedar Oil To Latest Times, To Leave Behind Him Rhymes That Dread Neither Herrings Nor Frankincense.

O Natal Star, Thou Producest Twins Of Widely Different Character. [lat., Geminos, Horoscope, Varo Producis Genio.]