Life and Existence

I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming otherwise.

For I am nothing if not critical.

Still question’d me the story of my life From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes That I have pass’d.

Little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver Of my whole course of love.

And when he’s old, cashier’d.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.

A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time And razure of oblivion.

A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time And razure of oblivion.

O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature is a paradise To what we fear of death.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison’d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in my arms.

Thou hast nor youth nor age; But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant.

Thou hast nor youth nor age; But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant.

Thou hast nor youth nor age; But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

Be absolute for death.

A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.

A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.

It oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.

A man whose blood Is very snow-broth; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense.

The inaudible and noiseless foot of time.

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear.

All’s well that ends well: still the fine’s the crown; Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.