What's saved affordsNo indication of what's lost.
Are not great men the models of nations?
That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun,Trust to me!
They only fall, that strive to move,Or lose, that care to keep.
O hour, of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth,The blessèd hour of our dinners!
Who knows nothing base,Fears nothing known.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
Losers must have leave to speak.
A wise man loses nothing, if he but save himself.
But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
No man can lose what he never had.
Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
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