I am sore wounded but not slainI will lay me down and bleed a whileAnd then rise up to fight again
But far more numerous was the herd of such,Who think too little, and who talk too much.
Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.
Welcome, thou kind deceiver!Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,Even steal us from ourselves.
For you may palm upon us new for old:All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.
Such subtle covenants shall be made, Till peace itself is war in masquerade.
We first make our habits, then our habits make us.
If others in the same Glass better see ‘Tis for Themselves they look, but not for me: For my Salvation must its Doom receive Not from what others, but what I believe.
Thus like a Captive in an Isle confin’d,Man walks at large, a Pris’ner of the Mind
Whatever is, is in its causes just;But purblind manSees but a part o’ th’ chain; the nearest link;His eyes not carrying to that equal beamThat poises all above.
Tis Fate that flings the dice,And as she flingsOf kings makes peasants,And of peasants kings.
All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
Whence but from heaven, could men unskilled in arts,In several ages born, in several parts,Weave such agreeing truths? Or how, or why, Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought,Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.The wise, for cure, on exercise depend;God never made his work for man to mend.
Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw?Oh curst Effects of necessary Law!How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan,Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.
Great wits are to madness near alliedAnd thin partitions do their bounds divide.
Those who write ill, and they who ne’er durst write,Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.
Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more; Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate’s: Souls know no conquerors.
Only man clogs his happiness with care destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
Fight on my merry men all I’m a little wounded but I am not slain I will lay me down for to bleed a while Then I’ll rise and fight with you again.
All human things are subject to decay And when fate summons monarchs must obey.
Friendship of itself a holy tie is made more sacred by adversity.
Only man clogs his happiness with care destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
Chaucer I confess is a rough diamond and must be polished e’er he shines.
It is a madness to make fortune the mistress of events because in herself she is nothing but is ruled by prudence.
I’m a little wounded but I am not slain I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I’ll rise and fight again.
Present joys are more to flesh and blood Than the dull prospect of a distant good.
Damned Neuters in their Middle way of Steering Are neither Fish nor Flesh nor good Red Herring.
There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know!
But far more numerous was the herd of stfch Who think too little and who talk too much.
Only man clogs his happiness with care destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
Happy the man and happy he alone He who can call today his own: He who secure within can say Tomorrow do thy worst for I have liv’d today.
For truth has such a face and such a mien As to be lov’d needs only to be seen.
I’ll habits gather by unseen degrees As brooks make rivers rivers run to seas.
War he sung is toil and trouble Honour but an empty bubble.
…So when the last and dreadful hourThis crumbling pageant shall devour,The trumpet shall be heard on high,The dead shall live, the living die,And Music shall untune the sky
When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
Reason is a crutch for age, but youth is strong enough to walk alone.
Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
Forgiveness to the injured does belong but they ne’er pardon who have done wrong.
Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
The intoxication of anger, like that of the grape, shows us to others, but hides us from ourselves.
Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten.
Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.