Wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.
This is a devil, and no monster; I will leave him; I have no long spoon.
Go in, and cheer the town; we'll forth and fight;Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano:A stage where every man must play a part.
I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.
Beaten paths are for beaten men.
But over all things brooding sleptThe quiet sense of something lost.
Things that are not at all, are never lost.
That puts it not unto the touchTo win or lose it all.
Losers must have leave to speak.
What's saved affordsNo indication of what's lost.
A wise man loses nothing, if he but save himself.
No man can lose what he never had.
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
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