| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Reign of King Edward the Third by William Shakespeare: Yet, good my Lord, tis too much willfulness,
To let his blood be spilt, that may be saved.
KING EDWARD.
Exclaim no more; for none of you can tell
Whether a borrowed aid will serve, or no;
Perhaps he is already slain or ta'en.
And dare a Falcon when she's in her flight,
And ever after she'll be haggard like:
Let Edward be delivered by our hands,
And still, in danger, he'll expect the like;
But if himself himself redeem from thence,
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Royalty Restored/London Under Charles II by J. Fitzgerald Molloy: dogs, which the soldiers hooted away with a barbarous noise,
drinking and taking tobacco as they went."
A little while before his death Cromwell had named his eldest
surviving son, Richard, as his successor, and he was accordingly
declared Protector, with the apparent consent of the council,
soldiers, and citizens. Nor did the declaration cause any
excitement, "There is not a dog who wags his tongue, so profound
is the calm which we are in," writes Thurlow to Oliver's second
son, Henry, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. But if the nation
in its dejection made no signs of resistance, neither did it give
any indications of satisfaction, and Richard was proclaimed "with
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems of William Blake by William Blake: I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lillys leaf;
Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep:
Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping
And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.
The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head:
She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald
In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes
O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves,
Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed:
My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,
But he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head
Poems of William Blake |
