He Who Eats My Bread, Does My

Time Is A Kind Of River, An Irresistible Flood Sweeping Up Men And Events And Carrying Them Headlong, One After The Other, To The Great Sea Of Being.

Take It That You Have Died Today, And Your Life's Story Is Ended; And Henceforward Regard What Future Time May Be Given You As Uncovenanted Surplus, And Live It Out In Harmony With Nature.

Everything Is Mere Opinion.

Whatever Anyone Does Or Says, I Must Be Emerald And Keep My Colour.

A Lucky Chance Is Constant In Nothing But Inconstancy.