What's saved affordsNo indication of what's lost.
The devil, my friends, is a woman just now.'Tis a woman that reigns in Hell.
There is a pleasure which is born of pain.
That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun,Trust to me!
That's bestWhich God sends. 'Twas His will: it is mine.
In life there are meetings which seemLike a fate.
A wise man loses nothing, if he but save himself.
Losers must have leave to speak.
But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
No man can lose what he never had.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
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