You know how little time we have to stay,
And once departed, may return no more.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future fears.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust unto 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 thy 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 (1048 - 1138)