is ours; We have given away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom , that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like , For this, for everything, we are ; It us not. Great God! I'd rather be Speaking Listening A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth Parallel Reading On the Life of Man What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring- houses be, Where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest Sir Walter Raleigh 12th - - The Hour of Truth Page Warm Up Unit