« AnteriorContinuar »
Turns them to shape , and gives to aisy nothing A local habitation and a name.
Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do ; Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues Did not go forth of us , 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely
touch'd, But to fine issues : nor 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. What stronger breast-plate than a heart un
tainted ? Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just : And he but naked (though lock'd up in steel) Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
CH A P. I X.
Ur, world, thy slippery turns ! Friends now
fast swora', Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, and
exercise Are still together; who twine, as 'twere , in love Inseparable ; shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity. So fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their
sleep, To take the one the other, by some chance , Some trick not worth an egg , shall grow dear
friends, And interjoin their issues.
- So it falls out, That what we have we prize not to the worth , While we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, Why then we wreak the value ; then we find
The virtue that possession would not shew us Whilst it was ours.
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.
There is some soul of goodness in things eyil, Would men observingly distil it ont, For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers ; Which is both healthful and good husbandry : Besides they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us, all; admonishing, That we should dress us fairly for our end.
o momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hope in th' air of men's fair looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
Who shall go about
Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand,
Fell Sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more , Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.
'Tis Slander ; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose
tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings , queens, and
states, Maids, matrons, nay the secrets of the grave, This vip'rous Slander enters.
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.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty space from day to day , To the last syllable of recorded time ; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools. The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief candle ! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his bour upon the stage, And then is beard no more! It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury , Signifying pothing.
| C H A P. . .
The Dervise. A DERVISE, travelling through 'Tartary, being arrived at the town of Balk , went into the King's palace by a mistake, as thinking it to be a public inn or caravansary. Having looked about him for some time, he entered into a long gallery, where he laid down his wallet, and spread his carpet , in order to repose himself upon it after the manner of the eastern nations. He had not been long in this posture, before be was discovered by some of the guards , who asked him, what was his business in that place? The Dervise told them, he intended to take up his nighls lodging in that caravansary. The guards let him know in a very angry manner, that the house he was in, was not a caravansary but the king's palace. It happened that the king himself passed through the gallery during the debate , and smiling at the mistake of the Dervise, asked him , how he could possibly be so dull as not to distinguish a palace from a caravansary ? Sire, says the Dervise, give me leave to ask your majesty a question or two. Who were the persons that lodged in this house when it was first built ? The king replied, his ancestors. And who, says the Dervise, was the last person that lodged here? The king replied, his father. And who is it, says the Dervise, that lodges here at present? the king told him, That it was he himself. And who says the Dervise, will be here after you? The king answered, The young prince his son. « Ah, Sire, » said the Dervise, « a house that » changes its inhabitants so often, and receives » such a perpetual succession of guests, is not a » palace, but a caravansary. .
SPECTATOR. CHA P. II.
A turkish Tale. W E are told, that the Sultan Mahmoud, by his perpetual wars abroad, and his tyranny at home , bad filled his dominions with ruin and desolation, and half unpeopled the Persian, empire. The visier to this great sultan (whether an humourist or an enthusiast, we are not informed ) pretended to have learned of a certain Dervise to understand the language of birds, so that there was not a bird that could open its mouth, but the visier knew what is was it said. As he was one evening with the emperor , in their return from hunting, they saw a couple of owls upon a tree that grew near an old wall out of an heap of rubbish. I would fain know, says the sultan what those two owls are saying to one another : listen to their discourse, and give me an account of it. The visier approached the tree, pretending to be very attentive to the two owls. Upon his return to the sultan : Sir, says he, I have heard part of their conversation, but dare not tell you what it is. The sultan would not be satisfied with such an answer; but forced him to repeat, word for word, every thing the owls had said. You must know, then , said the visier , that one of these owls has. & son, and the other a daughter, between whom