Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip. - Lord Byron

Even gods must yield — religions take their turn:
’Twas Jove’s — ’tis Mahomet’s — and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds.

There are two Souls, whose equal flow
In gentle stream so calmly run,
That when they part — they part? — ah no!
They cannot part — those Souls are One.

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.