La Mort De Lucrèce

“What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?Or sells eternity to get a toy?For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?””

— William Shakespeare

“Those that much covet are with gain so fond,For what they have not, that which they possessThey scatter and unloose it from their bond,And so, by hoping more, they have but less;Or, gaining more, the profit of excessIs but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.””

— William Shakespeare

“Beauty itself doth of itself persuadeThe eyes of men without orator.””

— William Shakespeare

“But no perfection is so absoluteThat some inpurity doth not pollute.””

— William Shakespeare

“She smiled with so sweet a cheerThat had Narcissus seen her as she stood Self-love had never drowned him in the flood””

— William Shakespeare

“Why should the private pleasure of some oneBecome the public plague of many moe?Let sin, alone committed, light aloneUpon his head that hath transgressed so;Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe:For one's offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general?””

— William Shakespeare

“And my true eyes have never practis'd how To cloak offences with a cunning brow””

— William Shakespeare

“O Opportunity, thy guilt is great!'Tis thou that executest the traitor's treason:Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get;Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season;'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason;And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.'Thou makest the vestal violate her oath;Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd;Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth;Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd!Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud:Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,Thy private feasting to a public fast,Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste:Thy violent vanities can never last.How comes it then, vile Opportunity,Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?'When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend,And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd?When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end?Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd?Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd?The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;But they ne'er meet with Opportunity.'The patient dies while the physician sleeps;The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;Advice is sporting while infection breeds:Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds:Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages,Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid:They buy thy help; but Sin ne'er gives a fee,He gratis comes; and thou art well appaidAs well to hear as grant what he hath said.””

— William Shakespeare

“No man inveigh against the withered flower, But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed.””

— William Shakespeare