The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
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.
If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple.
Strange, is it not? That of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road Which to discover we must travel too.
