The heaven that rolls around cries aloud to you while it displays its eternal beauties, and yet your eyes are fixed upon the earth alone.
Lying in a featherbed will bring you no fame, nor staying beneath the quilt, and he who uses up his life without achieving fame leaves no more vestige of himself on Earth than smoke in the air or foam upon the water.
The heavens call to you, and circle about you, displaying to you their eternal splendors, and your eye gazes only to earth.
The splendors that belong unto the fame of earth are but a wind, that in the same direction lasts not long.
As fall the light autumnal leaves, one still the other following, till the bough strews all its honors on the earth below.
Fame is not won on downy plumes nor under canopies; the man who consumes his days without obtaining it leaves such mark of himself on earth as smoke in air or foam on water.
Your fame is as the grass, whose hue comes and goes, and His might withers it by whose power it sprang from the lap of the earth.
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