A person's life is like a single point in time. Everything flows away. Our senses are dim. The whole body moves toward decay. The soul never rests. Fortune changes without warning. Fame means nothing. In short, everything about the body flows like a stream. Everything about the soul is like a dream or smoke. Life is a battle and a journey through foreign land. Fame after death is just another form of being forgotten.
The time of a man's life is as a point; the substance of it ever flowing, the sense obscure; and the whole composition of the body tending to corruption. His soul is restless, fortune uncertain, and fame doubtful; to be brief, as a stream so are all things belonging to the body; as a dream, or as a smoke, so are all that belong unto the soul. Our life is a warfare, and a mere pilgrimage. Fame after life is no better than oblivion.