Shore Riders Pony Club: Fill & Download for Free

So much Palahniuk here! So little Shakespeare! So much Coelho, so little Buddha! I have arrived at a time when I no longer recognize those whom my contemporaries fancy sages. Here are a few of my favorites. I can't quote King Lear in its entirety, alas. From the Iliad, book 1:ὣς ἔφατ᾽ εὐχόμενος, τοῦ δ᾽ ἔκλυε Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων,βῆ δὲ κατ᾽ Οὐλύμποιο καρήνων χωόμενος κῆρ,τόξ᾽ ὤμοισιν ἔχων ἀμφηρεφέα τε φαρέτρην:ἔκλαγξαν δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὀϊστοὶ ἐπ᾽ ὤμων χωομένοιο,αὐτοῦ κινηθέντος: ὃ δ᾽ ἤϊε νυκτὶ ἐοικώς.2 Samuel 12:1-7 in the 1611 King James version:1 And the Lord sent Nathan unto David. And he came unto him, and said unto him, There were two men in one city; the one rich, and the other poor.2 The rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds:3 But the poor man had nothing, save one little ewe lamb, which he had bought and nourished up: and it grew up together with him, and with his children; it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a daughter.4 And there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, to dress for the wayfaring man that was come unto him; but took the poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the man that was come to him.5 And David's anger was greatly kindled against the man; and he said to Nathan, As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die:6 And he shall restore the lamb fourfold, because he did this thing, and because he had no pity.7 And Nathan said to David, Thou art the man.From McCarthy's Blood Meridian:Oh my god, said the sergeant.A rattling drove of arrows passed through the company and men tottered and dropped from their mounts. Horses were rearing and plunging and the mongol hordes swung up along their flanks and turned and rode full upon them with lances.The company was now come to a halt and the first shots were fired and the gray riflesmoke rolled through the dust as the lancers breached their ranks. The kid's horse sank beneath him with a long pneumatic sigh. He had already fired his rifle and now he sat on the ground and fumbled with his shotpouch. A man near him sat with an arrow hanging out of his neck. He was bent slightly as if in prayer. The kid would have reached for the bloody hoop-iron point but then he saw that the man wore another arrow in his to the fletching and he was dead. Everywhere there were horses down and men scrambling and he saw a man who sat charging his rifle while blood ran from his ears and he saw men with their revolvers disassembled trying to fit the spare loaded cylinders they carried and he saw men kneeling who tilted and clasped their shadows on the ground and he saw men lanced and caught up by the hair and scalped standing and he saw the horses of war trample down the fallen and a little whitefaced pony with one clouded eye leaned out of the murk and snapped at him like a dog and was gone. Among the wounded some seemed dumb and without understanding and some were pale through the masks of dust and some had fouled themselves or tottered brokenly onto the spears of the savages. Now driving in a wild frieze of headlong horses with eyes walled and teeth cropped and riders with clusters of arrows clenched in their jaws and their shields winking in the dust and up the far side of the ruined ranks in a piping of boneflutes and dropping down off the sides of their mounts with one heel hung in the withers strap and their short bows flexing beneath the outstretched necks of the ponies until they had circled the company and cut their ranks in two and then rising up again like funhouse figures, some with nightmare faces painted on their s, riding down the unhorsed Saxons and spearing and clubbing them and leaping from their mounts with knives and running about on the ground with a peculiar bandylegged trot like creatures driven to alien forms of locomotion and stripping the clothes from the dead and seizing them up by the hair and passing their blades about the skulls of the living and the dead alike and snatching aloft the bloody wigs and hacking and chopping at the bodies, ripping off limbs, heads, gutting the strange white torsos and holding up great handfuls of viscera, , some of the savages so slathered up with gore they might have rolled in it like dogs and some who fell upon the dying and sodomized them with loud cries to their fellows. And now the horses of the dead came pounding out of the smoke and dust and circled with flapping leather and wild manes and eyes whited with fear like the eyes of the blind and some were feathered with arrows and some lanced through and stumbling and vomiting blood as they wheeled across the killing ground and clattered from sight again. Dust stanched the wet and heads of the scalped who with the fringe of hair below their wounds and tonsured to the bone now lay like maimed and monks in the bloodslaked dust and everywhere the dying groaned and gibbered and horses lay screaming.From Moby-Dick:All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed—there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond. But ’tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my master, man, is even that fair play. Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines.From Aeneid, book I:Constitit et lacrimans, 'Quis iam locus' inquit, 'Achate,quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris?En Priamus. Sunt hic etiam sua praemia laudi;sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.Solve metus; feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem.'Sic ait, atque animum pictura pascit inani,multa gemens, largoque umectat flumine voltum.Wordsworth, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early ChildhoodTHERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sight,To me did seemApparell'd in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5It is not now as it hath been of yore;—Turn wheresoe'er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.The rainbow comes and goes, 10And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair; 15The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where'er I go,That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs bound 20As to the tabor's sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong:The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 25No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and sea 30Give themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—Thou Child of Joy,Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 35Shepherd-boy!Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival, 40My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorning,This sweet May-morning, 45And the children are cullingOn every side,In a thousand valleys far and wide,Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:— 50I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!—But there's a tree, of many, one,A single field which I have look'd upon,Both of them speak of something that is gone:The pansy at my feet 55Doth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 60Hath had elsewhere its setting,And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we come 65From God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 70He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily farther from the eastMust travel, still is Nature's priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended; 75At length the Man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,And, even with something of a mother's mind, 80And no unworthy aim,The homely nurse doth all she canTo make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,Forget the glories he hath known,And that imperial palace whence he came. 85Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,A six years' darling of a pigmy size!See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,With light upon him from his father's eyes! 90See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,Some fragment from his dream of human life,Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;A wedding or a festival,A mourning or a funeral; 95And this hath now his heart,And unto this he frames his song:Then will he fit his tongueTo dialogues of business, love, or strife;But it will not be long 100Ere this be thrown aside,And with new joy and prideThe little actor cons another part;Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105That Life brings with her in her equipage;As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belieThy soul's immensity; 110Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keepThy heritage, thou eye among the blind,That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—Mighty prophet! Seer blest! 115On whom those truths do rest,Which we are toiling all our lives to find,In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;Thou, over whom thy ImmortalityBroods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, 120A presence which is not to be put by;To whom the graveIs but a lonely bed without the sense or sightOf day or the warm light,A place of thought where we in waiting lie; 125Thou little Child, yet glorious in the mightOf heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,Why with such earnest pains dost thou provokeThe years to bring the inevitable yoke,Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 130Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,And custom lie upon thee with a weight,Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live, 135That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest— 140Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise; 145But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a CreatureMoving about in worlds not realized, 150High instincts before which our mortal NatureDid tremble like a guilty thing surprised:But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may, 155Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;Uphold us, cherish, and have power to makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 160To perish never:Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,Nor Man nor Boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy! 165Hence in a season of calm weatherThough inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither,Can in a moment travel thither, 170And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound! 175We in thought will join your throng,Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts to-dayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so bright 180Be now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind; 185In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be;In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering;In the faith that looks through death, 190In years that bring the philosophic mind.And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,Forebode not any severing of our loves!Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquish'd one delight 195To live beneath your more habitual sway.I love the brooks which down their channels fret,Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;The innocent brightness of a new-born DayIs lovely yet; 200The clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober colouring from an eyeThat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;Another race hath been, and other palms are won.Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 205Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.From James Joyce, Ulysses:I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.Almost at random from Dante's Purgatorio, canto I, when the angel-driven vessel appears offshore:Lo mio maestro ancor non facea motto,mentre che i primi bianchi apparver ali;allor che ben conobbe il galeotto,gridò: «Fa, fa che le ginocchia cali.Ecco l'angel di Dio: piega le mani;omai vedrai di sì fatti officiali.Vedi che sdegna li argomenti umani,sì che remo non vuol, né altro veloche l'ali sue, tra liti sì lontani.Vedi come l'ha dritte verso 'l cielo,trattando l'aere con l'etterne penne,che non si mutan come mortal pelo».From Samson's mighty opening speech in Milton's Samson Agonistes:I seekThis unfrequented place to find some ease—Ease to the body some, none to the mindFrom restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarmOf hornets armed, no sooner found aloneBut rush upon me thronging, and presentTimes past, what once I was, and what am now.Oh, wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretoldTwice by an Angel, who at last, in sightOf both my parents, all in flames ascendedFrom off the altar where an offering burned,As in a fiery column chariotingHis godlike presence, and from some great actOr benefit revealed to Abraham’s race?Why was my breeding ordered and prescribedAs of a person separate to God,Designed for great exploits, if I must dieBetrayed, captived, and both my eyes put out,Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze,To grind in brazen fetters under taskWith this heaven-gifted strength? O glorious strength,Put to the labour of a beast, debasedLower than bond-slave! Promise was that IShould Israel from Philistian yoke deliver!Ask for this great Deliverer now, and find himEyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves,Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.Yet stay; let me not rashly call in doubtDivine prediction. What if all foretoldHad been fulfilled but through mine own default?Whom have I to complain of but myself,Who this high gift of strength committed to me,In what part lodged, how easily bereft me,Under the seal of silence could not keep,But weakly to a woman must reveal it,O’ercome with importunity and tears?O impotence of mind in body strong!But what is strength without a double shareOf wisdom? Vast, unwieldy, burdensome,Proudly secure, yet liable to fallBy weakest subtleties; not made to rule,But to subserve where wisdom bears command.God, when he gave me strength, to shew withalHow slight the gift was, hung it in my hair.But peace! I must not quarrel with the willOf highest dispensation, which hereinHaply had ends above my reach to know.Suffices that to me strength is my bane,And proves the source of all my miseries—So many, and so huge, that each apartWould ask a life to wail. But, chief of all,O loss of sight, of thee I most complain!Blind among enemies! O worse than chains,Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct,And all her various objects of delightAnnulled, which might in part my grief have eased.Inferior to the vilest now becomeOf man or worm, the vilest here excel me:They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposedTo daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong,Within doors, or without, still as a fool,In power of others, never in my own—Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half.O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,Irrecoverábly dark, total eclipseWithout all hope of day!O first-created Beam, and thou great Word,“Let there be light, and light was over all,”Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree?The Sun to me is darkAnd silent as the Moon,When she deserts the night,Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.Since light so necessary is to life,And almost life itself, if it be trueThat light is in the soul,She all in every part, why was the sightTo such a tender ball as the eye confined,So obvious and so easy to be quenched,And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused,That she might look at will through every pore?Then had I not been thus exiled from light,As in the land of darkness, yet in light,To live a life half dead, a living death,And buried; but, O yet more miserable!Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave;Buried, yet not exempt,By privilege of death and burial,From worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs;But made hereby obnoxious moreTo all the miseries of life,Life in captivityAmong inhuman foes.George Eliot, Middlemarch, closing sentence:But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale":My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness painsMy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drainsOne minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,But being too happy in thine happiness,—That thou, light-winged Dryad of the treesIn some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath beenCool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,And purple-stained mouth;That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,And with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs,Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;But here there is no light,Save what from heaven is with the breezes blownThrough verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweetWherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;And mid-May's eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; and, for many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,To take into the air my quiet breath;Now more than ever seems it rich to die,To cease upon the midnight with no pain,While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroadIn such an ecstasy!Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—To thy high requiem become a sod.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heardIn ancient days by emperor and clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn;The same that oft-times hathCharm'd magic casements, opening on the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so wellAs she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows, over the still stream,Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades:Was it a vision, or a waking dream?Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?Wallace Stevens, "The Idea of Order at Key West"She sang beyond the genius of the sea.The water never formed to mind or voice,Like a body wholly body, flutteringIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,That was not ours although we understood,Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.The sea was not a mask. No more was she.The song and water were not medleyed soundEven if what she sang was what she heard,Since what she sang was uttered word by word.It may be that in all her phrases stirredThe grinding water and the gasping wind;But it was she and not the sea we heard.For she was the maker of the song she sang.The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured seaWas merely a place by which she walked to sing.Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knewIt was the spirit that we sought and knewThat we should ask this often as she sang.If it was only the dark voice of the seaThat rose, or even colored by many waves;If it was only the outer voice of skyAnd cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,However clear, it would have been deep air,The heaving speech of air, a summer soundRepeated in a summer without endAnd sound alone. But it was more than that,More even than her voice, and ours, amongThe meaningless plungings of water and the wind,Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heapedOn high horizons, mountainous atmospheresOf sky and sea.It was her voice that madeThe sky acutest at its vanishing.She measured to the hour its solitude.She was the single artificer of the worldIn which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,Whatever self it had, became the selfThat was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,As we beheld her striding there alone,Knew that there never was a world for herExcept the one she sang and, singing, made.Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,Why, when the singing ended and we turnedToward the town, tell why the glassy lights,The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,As the night descended, tilting in the air,Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,And of ourselves and of our origins,In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.Robinson Jeffers, "Hurt Hawks"IThe broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,The wing trails like a banner in defeat,No more to use the sky forever but live with famineAnd pain a few days: cat nor coyoteWill shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.He stands under the oak-bush and waitsThe lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedomAnd flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.The curs of the day come and torment himAt distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to thoseThat ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.III’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtailHad nothing left but unable miseryFrom the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom,He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,Not like a beggar, still eyed with the oldImplacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but whatSoared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its risingBefore it was quite unsheathed from reality.Great openings # 758 -- Kafka, "Ein Landarzt"Ich war in großer Verlegenheit: eine dringende Reise stand mir bevor; ein Schwerkranker wartete auf mich in einem zehn Meilen entfernten Dorfe; starkes Schneegestöber füllte den weiten Raum zwischen mir und ihm; einen Wagen hatte ich, leicht, großräderig, ganz wie er für unsere Landstraßen taugt; in den Pelz gepackt, die Instrumententasche in der Hand, stand ich reisefertig schon auf dem Hofe; aber das Pferd fehlte, das Pferd.An alternative to Paul Coelho: the opening verses of the Dhammapada in Easwaran's lovely translation:Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Suffering follows an evil thought as the wheels of a cart follow the oxen that draw it.Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Joy follows a pure thought like a shadow that never leaves.“He was angry with me, he attacked me, he defeated me, he robbed me” – those who dwell on such thoughts will never be free from hatred.“He was angry with me, he attacked me, he defeated me, he robbed me” –those who do not dwell on such thoughts will surely become free from hatred.For hatred can never put an end to hatred; love alone can. This is an unalterable law.People forget that their lives will end soon. For those who remember, quarrels come to an end.Gotta stop somewhere, right. Here's a bit of Lear:Lear. Read.Earl of Gloucester. What, with the case of eyes?Lear. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor nomoney in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your pursein a light. Yet you see how this world goes.2755Earl of Gloucester. I see it feelingly.Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes.Look with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yondsimple thief. Hark in thine ear. Change places and, handy-dandy,which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen afarmer's dog bark at a beggar?Earl of Gloucester. Ay, sir.Lear. And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst beholdthe great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office.Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back.Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kindFor which thou whip'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it.None does offend, none- I say none! I'll able 'em.Take that of me, my friend, who have the powerTo seal th' accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyesAnd, like a scurvy politician, seemTo see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now!Pull off my boots. Harder, harder! So.Edgar. O, matter and impertinency mix'd!Reason, in madness!Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester.Thou must be patient. We came crying hither;Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the airWe wawl and cry. I will preach to thee. Mark.Earl of Gloucester. Alack, alack the day!Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are comeTo this great stage of fools.Okay, one more for those who can read it -- one of the loneliest poems ever written, "The Seafarer":Mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan,siþas secgan, hu ic geswincdagumearfoðhwile oft þrowade,bitre breostceare gebiden hæbbe,gecunnad in ceole cearselda fela,atol yþa gewealc, þær mec oft bigeatnearo nihtwaco æt nacan stefnan,þonne he be clifum cnossað. Calde geþrungenwæron mine fet, forste gebundencaldum clommum, þær þa ceare seofedunhat ymb heortan; hungor innan slatmerewerges mod. Þæt se mon ne watþe him on foldan fægrost limpeð,hu ic earmcearig iscealdne sæwinter wunade wræccan lastum,winemægum bidroren,bihongen hrimgicelum; hægl scurum fleag.þær ic ne gehyrde butan hlimman sæ,iscaldne wæg. Hwilum ylfete songdyde ic me to gomene, ganotes hleoþorond huilpan sweg fore hleahtor wera,mæw singende fore medodrince.Stormas þær stanclifu beotan, þær him stearn oncwæð,isigfeþera; ful oft þæt earn bigeal,urigfeþra; nænig hleomægafeasceaftig ferð frefran meahte.Forþon him gelyfeð lyt, se þe ah lifes wyngebiden in burgum, bealosiþa hwon,wlonc ond wingal, hu ic werig oftin brimlade bidan sceolde.Nap nihtscua, norþan sniwde,hrim hrusan bond, hægl feol on eorþan,corna caldast. Forþon cnyssað nuheortan geþohtas þæt ic hean streamas,sealtyþa gelac sylf cunnige --monað modes lust mæla gehwylceferð to feran, þæt ic feor heonanelþeodigra eard gesece --Forþon nis þæs modwlonc mon ofer eorþan,ne his gifena þæs god, ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt,ne in his dædum to þæs deor, ne him his dryhten to þæs hold,þæt he a his sæfore sorge næbbe,to hwon hine Dryhten gedon wille.Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge ne to hringþegene to wife wyn ne to worulde hyhtne ymbe owiht elles nefne ymb yða gewealc;ac a hafað longunge se þe on lagu fundað.Bearwas blostmum nimað, byrig fægriað,wongas wlitigað, woruld onetteð:ealle þa gemoniað modes fusnesefan to siþe þam þe swa þenceðon flodwegas feor gewitan.Swylce geac monað geomran reorde;singeð sumeres weard, sorge beodeðbitter in breosthord. Þæt se beorn ne wat,sefteadig secg, hwæt þa sume dreogaðþe þa wræclastas widost lecgað.Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð ofer hreþerlocan,min modsefa mid mereflode,ofer hwæles eþel hweorfeð wide,eorþan sceatas -- cymeð eft to megifre ond grædig; gielleð anfloga,hweteð on hwælweg hreþer unwearnumofer holma gelagu. Forþon me hatran sindDryhtnes dreamas þonne þis deade liflæne on londe. Ic gelyfe noþæt him eorðwelan ece stondað.Simle þreora sum þinga gehwylceær his tiddege to tweon weorþeð:adl oþþe yldo oþþe ecghetefægum fromweardum feorh oðþringeð.Forþon biþ eorla gehwam æftercweþendralof lifgendra lastworda betst,þæt he gewyrce, ær he on weg scyle,fremum on foldan wið feonda niþ,deorum dædum deofle togeanes,þæt hine ælda bearn æfter hergen,ond his lof siþþan lifge mid englumawa to ealdre, ecan lifes blæd,dream mid dugeþum. Dagas sind gewitene,ealle onmedlan eorþan rices;nearon nu cyningas ne caserasne goldgiefan swylce iu wæron,þonne hi mæst mid him mærþa gefremedonond on dryhtlicestum dome lifdon.Gedroren is þeos duguð eal, dreamas sind gewitene;wuniað þa wacran ond þæs woruld healdaþ,brucað þurh bisgo. Blæd is gehnæged,eorþan indryhto ealdað ond searað,swa nu monna gehwylc geond middangeard.Yldo him on fareþ, onsyn blacað,gomelfeax gnornað, wat his iuwine,æþelinga bearn eorþan forgiefene.Ne mæg him þonne se flæschoma þonne him þæt feorg losaðne swete forswelgan ne sar gefelanne hond onhreran ne mid hyge þencan.Þeah þe græf wille golde streganbroþor his geborenum, byrgan be deadummaþmum mislicum, þæt hine mid wille,ne mæg þære sawle þe biþ synna fulgold to geoce for Godes egsan,þonne he hit ær hydeð þenden he her leofað.Micel biþ se Meotudes egsa, forþon hi seo molde oncyrreð;se gestaþelade stiþe grundas,eorþan sceatas ond uprodor.Dol biþ se þe him his Dryhten ne ondrædeþ: cymeð him se deað unþinged.Eadig bið se þe eaþmod leofaþ; cymeð him seo ar of heofonum.Meotod him þæt mod gestaþelað, forþon he in his meahte gelyfeð.Stieran mon sceal strongum mode, ond þæt on staþelum healdan,ond gewis werum, wisum clæne.Scyle monna gehwylc mid gemete healdanwiþ leofne ond wið laþne * * * bealo.þeah þe he hine wille fyres fulneoþþe on bæle forbærnednehis geworhtne wine, Wyrd biþ swiþre,Meotud meahtigra, þonne ænges monnes gehygd.Uton we hycgan hwær we ham agen,ond þonne geþencan hu we þider cumen;ond we þonne eac tilien þæt we to motenin þa ecan eadignesseþær is lif gelong in lufan Dryhtnes,hyht in heofonum. Þæs sy þam Halgan þoncþæt he usic geweorþade, wuldres Ealdorece Dryhten, in ealle tid. Amen.Consider all these voices from the bygone world. I could go on like this all day, or until someone hemorrhages.