Quotes
Quotes about Loss
The loss of wealth is loss of dirt,
As sages in all times assert;
The happy man's without a shirt.
No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd,
No arborett with painted blossoms drest
And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd
To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousell'd, disappointed, unaneled,
No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head.
Who does i' the wars more than his captain can
Becomes his captain's captain; and ambition,
The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss,
Than gain which darkens him.
The most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace.
Do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah, do not, when my heart hath'scap'd this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.
A fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns and every thing handsome about him.
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time
But from its loss.
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees.
The dews of the evening most carefully shun,--
Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.
Prologues like compliments are loss of time;
'T is penning bows and making legs in rhyme.
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain
That has been, and may be again.
Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Love not! love not! ye hopeless sons of clay;
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers--
Things that are made to fade and fall away,
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours.
O Love! what hours were thine and mine,
In lands of palm and southern pine;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
A damsel of high lineage, and a brow
May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom,
Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose
Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower.
To do him any wrong was to beget
A kindness from him, for his heart was rich--
Of such fine mould that if you sowed therein
The seed of Hate, it blossomed Charity.
For I say this is death and the sole death,--
When a man's loss comes to him from his gain,
Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance,
And lack of love from love made manifest.
