Life and Existence

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

For it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours.

The naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d. And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

We are in God’s hand.

Now all the youth of England are on fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies.

Many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously; As many arrows, loosed several ways, Fly to one mark; as many ways meet in one town; As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea; As many lines close in the dial’s center; So may a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne Without defeat.

Many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously; As many arrows, loosed several ways, Fly to one mark; as many ways meet in one town; As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea; As many lines close in the dial’s center; So may a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and be all well borne Without defeat.

Consideration like an angel came, And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him.

Consideration like an angel came, And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him.

This is the English, not the Turkish court; Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, But Harry Harry.

His cares are now all ended.

Before thy hour be ripe.

We see which way the stream of time doth run And are enforc’d from our most quiet sphere By the rough torrent of occasion.

We see which way the stream of time doth run And are enforc’d from our most quiet sphere By the rough torrent of occasion.

There is a history in all men’s lives.

There is a history in all men’s lives.

O God! that one might read the book of fate.

Past and to come seem best; things present worst.

He was indeed the glass Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d.

How many things by season season’d are To their right praise and true perfection!

To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. 18

The weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground.