But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
Home they brought him slain with spears,They brought him home at even-fall.
Where God and Nature met in light.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
Every moment dies a man,Every moment one is born.
Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.
No man can lose what he never had.
What's saved affordsNo indication of what's lost.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
A wise man loses nothing, if he but save himself.
Losers must have leave to speak.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
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