Life and Existence

And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-luster eye, Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock; Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.” 27

And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-luster eye, Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock; Thus may we see,” quoth he, “how the world wags.” 27

Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i’ the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleas’d with what he gets.

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly.

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.

And He that doth the ravens feed, Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to my age!

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

One out of suits with fortune.

His life was gentle, and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, “This was a man!”

O! that a man might know The end of this day’s business, ere it come.

We must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

All his faults observ’d, Set in a notebook, learn’d, and conn’d by rote.

But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones.

O! pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers; Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times.

O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure?

How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted o’er, In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted o’er, In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

Speak, hands, for me!

But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

When beggars die there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men.