Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

Nought's had, all's spent,

Where our desire is got without content.

Nature never lends

The smallest scruple of her excellence,

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use.

No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,—
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does.

New honours,

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their

mould,

But with the aid of use.

New-made honour doth forget men's names.

Nature craves

All dues be rendered to their owners.

Nature, as it grows again toward earth,

Is fashion'd for the journey, dull, and heavy.

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

Nature must obey necessity.

Never

anger

Made good guard for itself.

Notes of sorrow out of tune are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.

No visor does become black villany
So well as soft and tender flattery.

Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness.

Nature, crescent, does not grow alone

In thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal.

Nothing almost sees miracles but misery.

Nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good, but strain'd from that fair

use,

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit.

[graphic][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed]
[ocr errors]

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are.

Our natures do pursue

(Like rats that ravin down their proper bane) A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die.

Ourselves we do not owe:*

What is decreed, must be.

O place! O form!

How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls
To thy false seeming!

Outward courtesies would fain proclaim
Favours that keep within.

* Owe, own.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »