In the life of a man, his time is but a moment, his being an incessant flux, his senses a dim rushlight, his body a prey of worms, his soul an unquiet eddy, his fortune dark, and his fame doubtful. In short, all that is of the body is as coursing waters, all that is of the soul as dreams and vapours. Our life is warfare, and a brief sojourning in an alien land.

Fame after life is no better than oblivion. What is it then that will adhere and follow?