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

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.To-morrow 's falser than the former day;Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blestWith some new joys, cuts off what we possest.Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;And from the dregs of life think to receiveWhat the first sprightly running could not give.

None are so busy as the fool and knave.

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.

When I consider Life, 'tis all a cheat;Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:To-morrow's falser than the former day;Lies worse; and while it says, we shall be blestWith some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.

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.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

Great wits are to madness near alliedAnd thin partitions do their bounds divide.

Farewell, ungrateful traitor, Farewell, my perjured swain;Let never injured creature Believe a man again.The pleasure of possessingSurpasses all expressing,But 'tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain.'Tis easy to deceive us In pity of your pain;But when we love you leave us To rail at you in vain.Before we have descried itThere is no bliss beside it,But she that once has tried it Will never love again.The passion we pretended Was only to obtain,But when the charm is ended The charmer you disdain.Your love by ours we measureTill we have lost our treasure,But dying is a pleasure When living is a pain.

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.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

Only man clogs his happiness with care destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.

None but the brave deserves the fair.

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.

Fortune befriends the bold.

None but the brave deserve the fair.

All human things are subject to decay And when fate summons monarchs must obey.

Every inch that is not fool is rogue.

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.

His tribe were God Almighty's gentlemen.

For Art may err but Nature cannot miss.

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.

Stiff in opinion always in the wrong.

Damned Neuters in their Middle way of Steering Are neither Fish nor Flesh nor good Red Herring.

Repentance is but want of power to sin.

There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know!

They conquer who believe they can.

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 is the trade of kings.

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