Oh, What A Void There Is In

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.

Retire Within Thyself, And Thou Will Discover How Small A Stock Is There. [lat., Tecum Habita, Et Noris Quam Sit Tibi Curta Supellex.]

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.

Is Any Man Free Except The One Who Can Pass His Life As He Pleases?

I Know You Even Under The Skin.