Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
Against self-slaughterThere is a prohibition so divineThat cravens my weak hand.
Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,That banish what they sue for.
I am a soldier and unapt to weepOr to exclaim on fortune's fickleness.
Take physic, pomp;Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
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.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
Losers must have leave to speak.
No man can lose what he never had.
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