The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

Living Life Tomorrow's fate, though thou be wise, Thou canst not tell nor yet surmise; Pass, therefore, not today in vain, For it will never come again.

A hair divides what is false and true.

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.