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You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both.
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Ay me! sad hours seem long.
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Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
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Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; then what should war be?
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There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
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In thy foul throat thou liest.
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Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; for in my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; and did not, with unbashful forehead, woo the means of weakness and debility: therefore my age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
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The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
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If there is a good will, there is great way.
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Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I; every man to his business.
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I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now.
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But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
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Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
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Make passionate my sense of hearing.
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All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
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Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other
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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
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But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
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Love reasons without reason.
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.
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And makes me poor indeed.