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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.
Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
How far the little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
-Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none; be able for thine enemy
The cloudeapp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
Leave not a wreck behind! We are such stuff
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, When our deep plots do fail; and that should teach us, There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Roughhew them how we will.
The Poet's eye, in a fine phrenzy rolling,
Doth glance from Heav'n to earth, from earth to Heav'n;
And as Imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, the Poet's pen
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd,
The smallest scruple of her excellence,
Both thanks and use.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
OH, World! thy slippery turns: Friends now fast sworn,
On a dissension of a doit, break out
To bitterest enmity. So fellest foes,
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep,
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends,
So it falls out,
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
It seems to me most strange, that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come, when it will come.
"There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out;
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
O momentary grace of mortal men,
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Ready with every nod to tumble down
Who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable
O that estates, degrees, and offices,
Were not derived corruptly; that clear honour
Oh who can hold a fire in his hand
Or wallow naked in December's snow
Whose edge is sharper than tne sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.
To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow, Creeps in this petty space from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more! It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
A DERVISE, travelling through Tartary, being arrived at the town of Balk, went into the king's palace by mistake, as thinking it to be a public inn or caravansary. Having looked about him for some time, he entered into a long gallery, where he laid down his wallet, and spread his carpet, in or
der to repose himself upon it after the manner of the eastern nations. He had not been long in this posture, before he was discovered by some of the guards, who asked him what was his business in that place. The dervise told them he intended to take up his night's lodging in that caravansary. The guards let him know, in a very angry manner, that the house he was in was not a caravansary, but the king's palace. It happened that the king himself passed through the gallery during this debate, and, smiling at the mistake of the dervise, asked him how he could possibly be so dull as not to distin guish a palace from a caravansary. Sir, says the dervise, give me leave to ask your majesty a question or two. Who were the persons that lodged in this house when it was first built? The king replied, his ancestors. And who, says the dervise, was the last person that lodged here? The king replied, his father. And who is it, says the dervise, that lodges here at present? The king told him, that it was he