Emotions and Feelings

And kind as kings upon their coronation day.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

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.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, But Shadwell 5 never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.

There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know. 3

Made still a blund’ring kind of melody; Spurr’d boldly on, and dash’d through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in. Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

Made still a blund’ring kind of melody; Spurr’d boldly on, and dash’d through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in. Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

Of ancient race by birth, but nobler yet In his own worth.

His tribe were God Almighty’s gentlemen.

Who think too little, and who talk too much.

When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat; Yet, fool’d with hope, men favor the deceit; Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow’s falser than the former day.

Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

He that is down, needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride.

He that is down, needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride.

Who would true valor see, Let him come hither; One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather. There’s no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first avow’d intent

A mighty pain to love it is, And ’tis a pain that pain to miss; But of all pains, the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain.

Well then; I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne’er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy, And they (methinks) deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city.

Ah yet, ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too!

Neither have the hearts to stay, Nor wit enough to run away.

I am not now in fortune’s power: He that is down can fall no lower.

And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks.

And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 1 Was beat with fist, instead of a stick.