|
|
 |
Listings |
 |
Alexander Pope
All fame is foreign, but of true desert; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart: One self approving hour whole years out-weighs Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels, Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.
|
Bernard Barton
As I walk'd by myself, I talk'd to myself And myself replied to me; And the questions myself then put to myself, With their answers I give to thee.
|
Edward Young
'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours; And ask them what report they bore to heaven: And how they might have borne more welcome news.
|
George Herbert
Summe up at night what thou hast done by day; And in the morning what thou hast to do. Dresse and undresse thy soul; mark the decay And growth of it; if, with thy watch, that too Be down then winde up both; since we shall be Most surely judg'd, make thy accounts agree.
|
Isaac Watts
Let not soft slumber close your eyes, Before you've collected thrice The train of action through the day! Where have my feet chose out their way? What have I learnt, where'er I've been, From all I've heard, from all I've seen? What have I more that's worth the knowing? What have I done that's worth the doing? What have I sought that I should shun? What duty have I left undone, Or into what new follies run? These self-inquiries are the road That lead to virtue and to God.
|
Israel Zangwill
You should examine yourself daily. If you find faults, you should correct them. When you find none, you should try even harder.
|
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
|
William Shakespeare
O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.
|
William Shakespeare
Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself That skins the vice o' th' top; go to your bosom, Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault; if it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life.
|
William Wordsworth
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
|
|
|
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
Browse Categories |
|
|
|
|
