The Contender |
. . . I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like molten lead. |
. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself; it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest. |
. . . there have been many great men that have flattered the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore: so that if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. |
...the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which. |
'Tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow; But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself |
'Tis best to weigh The enemy more mighty than he seems |
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of |
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale |
'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake that virtue must go through |
'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus |
'Tis mad idolatry to make the service greater than the god. |
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after |
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after. |
'Tis not many oaths - That makes the truth, But the plain single vow - That is vowed true |