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Desire himself runs out of breath,

And, getting, doth but gain his death;
Desire nor reason hath, nor rest,

And, blind, doth seldom choose the best :
Desire attained is not desire,

But as the cinders of the fire.

As ships in ports desired are drowned;
As fruit, once ripe, then falls to ground;
As flies, that seek for flames, are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought :
So fond Desire, when it attains,



The life expires, the woe remains.


And yet some poets fain would prove
Affection to be perfect love;

And that Desire is of that kind,
No less a passion of the mind,

As if wild beasts and men did seek

To like, to love, to choose alike.

Sir Walter Raleigh.



The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man

Less than a span;

In his conception wretched; from the womb

So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,

But limns on water, or but writes in dust.



Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

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Courts are but only superficial schools

To dandle fools:

The rural parts are turned into a den
Of savage men :

And where's a city from foul vice so free,


But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

Or pains his head:

Those that live single, take it for a curse,

Or do things worse:

Some would have children; those that have them, moan,

Or wish them gone:

What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,

But single thraldom, or a double strife?


Our own affections still at home to please
Is a disease:


To cross the seas to any foreign soil,

Peril and toil:

Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,

We' are worse in peace :

What then remains, but that we still should cry

For being born, or, being born, to die?

Lord Bacon.



The lowest trees have tops; the ant her gall;
The fly her spleen; the little sparks their heat:
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small;
And bees have stings, although they be not great.
Seas have their surges, so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.


Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords;

The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move; The firmest faith is in the fewest words;

The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love.

True hearts have eyes, and ears, no tongues to speak;
They hear, and see, and sigh; and then they break.


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And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the Church it shows

What's good, and doth no good.

If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell Potentates they live
Acting by others' action;
Not loved unless they give,

Not strong but by affection.
If Potentates reply,

Give Potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,

That manage the Estate,
Their purpose is ambition,

Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.




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What is the world? tell, worldling, if thou know it.
If it be good, why do all ills o'erflow it?
If it be bad, why dost thou like it so?
If it be sweet, how comes it bitter then?
If it be bitter, what bewitcheth men?

If it be friend, why kills it, as a foe,
Vain-minded men that over-love and lust it?
If it be foe, fondling, how dar'st thou trust it?


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