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" "He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey?
And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil?
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood: where honour, power, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet,
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.
Samuel Daniel (1562 – October 14, 1619) was an English poet and historian.
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Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries— Heigh ho!Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so?
More we enjoy it, &c.
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