Memories and Recollections

Far off from these a slow and silent stream, Lethe the river of oblivion rolls.

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov’d? were we not wean’d till then But suck’d on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers’ den?

Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water.

Let us not burden our remembrances With a heaviness that’s gone.

When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime, In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express’d Even such a beauty as you master now.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear times’ waste.

He shall have a noble memory.

O! my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten.

Memory, the warder of the brain.

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.

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear.

What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with husks And formless ruin of oblivion.

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion.

Within the book and volume of my brain.

While memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records.

’Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

In my mind’s eye, Horatio.

The memory be green.

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.

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.

There is a history in all men’s lives.

The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

I’ll note you in my book of memory.