The wrong sow by th' eare.
Virtue is not malicious; wrong done her
Is righted even when men grant they err.
What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion.
Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of it; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day
Whose conquering ray
May chase these fogs;
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Light will repay
The wrongs of night;
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I 'm sure, was in the right.
A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But in the course of one revolving moon
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
Forgiveness to the injured does belong;
But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong.
The multitude is always in the wrong.
She's no chicken; she's on the wrong side of thirty, if she be a day.
I see the right, and I approve it too,
Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.
Some write their wrongs in marble: he more just,
Stoop'd down serene and wrote them in the dust,--
Trod under foot, the sport of every wind,
Swept from the earth and blotted from his mind.
There, secret in the grave, he bade them lie,
And grieved they could not'scape the Almighty eye.
For forms of government let fools contest;
Whate'er is best administer'd is best.
For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.
In faith and hope the world will disagree,
But all mankind's concern is charity.
The right divine of kings to govern wrong.
Behold on wrong
Swift vengeance waits; and art subdues the strong!
And bear unmov'd the wrongs of base mankind,
The last and hardest conquest of the mind.
Brother, brother! we are both in the wrong.
That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong one.
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong.
Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
Perhaps 't is pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.