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To-day is thine to spend, but not to-morrow Counting on morrows breedeth bankrupt sorrow: O squander not this breath that Heaven hath lent thee Make not too sure another breath to borrow.
Omar Khayyam
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Omar Khayyam
Age: 83 †
Born: 1048
Born: May 15
Died: 1131
Died: December 4
Astrologer
Astronomer
Lyricist
Mathematician
Musician
Philosopher
Physicist
Poet
Writer
Neyshabur
Omar Khayyam
Hakim Omar Khayyám
Make
Breath
Squander
Breaths
Lent
Thee
Bankrupt
Sorrow
Thine
Spend
Borrow
Sure
Morrow
Heaven
Counting
Another
Hath
More quotes by Omar Khayyam
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
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If I don't enjoy myself now, when shall I?
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He who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere.
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A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.
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We are thinking about bad only those who are worse than we are, and those who are better than us ... I'm just not up to us ... One does not follow it than smell roses. Another of the bitter herbs will produce honey. Give bread to one - will remember forever. Another life donation - do not understand.
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Algebras (jabbre and maqabeleh) are geometric facts which are proved by propositions five and six of Book two of Elements.
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Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destin'd Hour and went his way.
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Into this universe, and why not knowing Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing And out of it, as wind along the wate, I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
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This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.
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The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
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Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire, and Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.
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I hide my distress, just likethe blessed birds hide themselveswhen they are preparing to die. Wine! Wine, roses, music and yourindifference to my sadness, my loved-one!
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The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.
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Drink! For you know not whence you came nor why.
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Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
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There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.
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Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.
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This clay, so strong of heart, of sense so fine,Surely such clay is more than half divine--'Tis only fools speak evil of the clay,The very stars are made of clay like mine.
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The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing-Oh, make haste!
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I can’t reveal the mystery to either saint or sinner I can’t state at length what I’ve said curtly I achieve an altered state that I can’t explain I have a secret that I cannot share.
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