A Human Baby’s like a sailor washed up on a beach By the battering of the surf, naked, lacking the power of speech, Possessing no mean of survival, when first Nature pours Him forth with birth-pangs from his mother’s womb upon Light’s shores. He fills the room up with his sorrowful squalls, and rightly so! – Just think what lies in store for him, Life’s full supply of woe.
Death has no loopholes. All of us must meet it in the end. We go through the same motions in the same old place. No measure Of added life will ever coin for us a novel pleasure. True, while we lack that which we long for, it is an obsession, But we will just crave something else once it’s in our possession; We are forever panting with an unquenched thirst for life. No one knows what the years to come will bring – what joy or strife May lie in store for us, what outcome’s looming in
“For what prevents us from saying that the happy life is to have a mind that is free, lofty, fearless and steadfast – a mind that is placed beyond the reach of fear, beyond the reach of desire, that counts virtue the only good, baseness the only evil, and all else but a worthless mass of things, which come and go without increasing or diminishing the highest good, and neither subtract any part from the happy life nor add any part to it? A man thus grounded must, whether he wills or not, necessarily be attended by constant cheerfulness and