You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears: Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! 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. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam