I am thinking, friend, upon human affairs; and well may I weep and lament, for the doom of all is sealed. Hence my compassion and my sorrow. For the present, I think not of it; but the future!—the future is all bitterness. Conflagration and destruction of the world. I weep to think that nothing abides, All things are whirled together in confusion. Pleasure and pain, knowledge and ignorance, great and small; up and down they go, the playthings of Time.

And what is Time?

A child; and plays at draughts and blindman’s-buff.

And men?

Are mortal Gods.

And Gods?

Immortal men.

So! Conundrums, fellow? Nuts to crack? You are a very oracle for obscurity.

Your affairs do not interest me.

No one will be fool enough to bid for you at that rate.

Young and old, him that bids and him that bids not, a murrain seize you all!

A sad case. He will be melancholy mad before long. Neither of these is the creed for my money.

No one bids.

Next lot.