Essays: On the Following Subjects: Celibacy, Wedlock, Seduction, Pride, Duelling, Self-murder, Lying, Detraction, Avarice, Justice, Generosity, Temperance, Excess, Death
Smart and Cowslade, 1806 - 190 páginas
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Página 144 - There the wicked cease from troubling; and there the weary be at rest. There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor. The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master.
Página 56 - tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word honour? What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o
Página 110 - Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes? And sell the mighty space of our large honours...
Página 77 - Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
Página 56 - Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. Doth he hear it ? No. Is it insensible then ? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Why? Detraction will, not suffer it: — therefore I'll none of it: Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.
Página 77 - tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die: to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life...
Página 153 - Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, ' Sister Spirit, come away ! ' What is this absorbs me quite ? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be Death...
Página 115 - HEAVEN eternal fountain of our feelings! 'tis here I trace thee and this is thy divinity which stirs within me not that, in some sad and sickening moments, my soul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruction mere pomp of words!
Página 69 - God created man in his own image, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.