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And that inverted bowl we call The Sky, where under crawling coop't we live and die, lift not thy hands to It for help -- for it rolls impotently on as thou or I.
By Fate full many a heart has been undone, And many a sprightly rose made woe-begone; Plume thee not on thy lusty youth and strength: Full many a bud is blasted ere its bloom.
Hearts are like tapers, which at beauteous eyes Kindle a flame of love that never dies; And beauty is a flame, where hearts, like moths, Offer themselves a burning sacrifice.
I do remember stopping by the way, To watch a potter thumping his wet clay; And with its all-obliterated tongue It murmured, ?Gently, brother, gently, pray!?
Lament not Fortune?s mutability, And seize her fickle favours ere they flee; If others never mourned departed bliss, How should a turn of Fortune come to thee?
Living Life Tomorrow's fate, though thou be wise, Thou canst not tell nor yet surmise; Pass, therefore, not today in vain, For it will never come again.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent doctor and saint, and heard great argument about it and about: but evermore came out by the same door as in I went.
Pagodas are, like mosques, true houses of prayer; ?Tis prayer that church bells waft upon the air; Kaaba and temple, rosary and cross, All are but divers tongues of world-wide prayer.
The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.
The value of three things is justly appreciated by all classes of men: youth, by the old; health, by the diseased; and wealth, by the needy.
This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.
Tis all a Checker-board of Nights and days where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, and one by one back in the Closet lays.
To friends and eke to foes true kindness show; No kindly heart unkindly deeds will do; Harshness will alienate a bosom friend. And kindness reconcile a deadly foe.
To-day is thine to spend, but not to-morrow; Counting on morrows breedeth bankrupt sorrow: O squander not this breath that Heaven hath lent thee; Make not too sure another breath to borrow.
When morning silvers the dark firmament, Why shrills the bird of dawning his lament? It is to show in dawn?s bright looking-glass How of thy careless life a night is spent.
Whilom, ere youth?s conceit had waned, methought Answers to all life?s problems I had wrought; But now, grown old and wise, too late I see My life is spent, and all my lore is nought.
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