Man is his own star; and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man Commands all light, all influence, all fate. Nothing to him falls early, or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
O woman, perfect woman! what distraction Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil!
I find the medicine worse than the malady
O great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that healest with blood The earth when it is sick, and curest the world O' the pleurisy of people.
Death hath so many doors to let out life.
Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! There's naught in this life sweet But only melancholy; O sweetest melancholy!
Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will; 'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill.
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone; Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Charity and treating begin at home.
Let them learn first to show pity at home.
Go far - too far you cannot, still the farther. The more experience finds you: and go sparing. One meal a week will serve you, and one suit, through all your travels; for you'll find it certain.
We must all die! All leave ourselves, it matters not where, when, Nor how, so we die well; and can that man that does so Need lamentation for him?
Man is his own star, and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man Commands all light, all influence, all fate. Nothing to him falls early, or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
That soul that can Be honest is the only perfect man.
Love's tongue is in his eyes.