If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still.
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue.
But that I am forbid,
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
Two may keep counsel, putting one away.
Two may keep counsel when the third's away.
Titus Andronicus. Act IV. Sc. 2. L. 144.
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Chaucer)
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Under the rose, since here are none but friends,
(To own the truth) we have some private ends.
Swift—Epilogue to a Benefit Play for the Distressed Weavers.
| seealso = (See also Browne)
| topic =
| page = 696
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Miserum est tacere cogi, quod cupias loqui.
You are in a pitiable condition when you
have to conceal what you wish to tell.
Syrus—Maxims.
Let your left hand turn away what your right
hand attracts.
Talmud. Sota. 47.
Taciturn vivit sub pectore vulnus.
The secret wound still lives within the
breast.
Vergil—Æneid. IV. 67. | author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic =
| page = 696
}}
SELF-EXAMINATION
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>
As I walk'd by myself, I tallc'd to myself
And myself replied to me;
And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers I give to thee.
Barnard Barton—Colloquy with Myself.
Appeared in Youth's Instructor, Dec, 1826.
Summe up at night what thou hast done by day;
And in the morning what thou hast to do.
Dresse and undresse thy soul; mark the decay
And growth of it; if, with thy watch, that too
Be down then winde up both ; since we shall be
Most surely judg'd, make thy accounts agree.
| author = Herbert
| work = The Temple. The Church Porch. Next to last stanza.
.
One self-approving hour whole years out-weighs
Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas.
| author = Pope
| work = Essay on Man.
| place = Ep. IV. L. 249.
.
Speak no more:
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my vory soul;
And there I see such black and grained spots
As will not leave their tinct.
Hamlet. Act III. Sc. 4. L. 88.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic =
| page = 696
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Go to your bosom ;
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth
know.
Let not soft slumber close your eyes,
Before you've collected thrice
The train of action through the day!
Where have my feet chose out their way?
What have I learnt, where'er I've been,
From all I've beard, from all I've seen?
What have I more that's worth the knowing?
What have I done that's worth the doing?
What have I sought that I should shun?
What duty have I left undone,
Or into what new follies run?
These self-inquiries are the road
That lead to virtue and to God.
Isaac Watts—Self Examination.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise;
And inward self-disparagement affords
To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
Wordsworth—The Excursion. Bk. IV.
"Ks greatly wise to talk with our past hours;
And ask them what report they bore to heaven:
And how they might have borne more welcome
news.
Young—Night Thoughts. Night II. L. 376.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic =
| page = 696
}}
SELFISHNESS
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>
Chacun chez soi, chacun pour soi.
Every one for his home, every one for himself.
M. Dupin.
Where all are selfish, the sage is no better than
the fool, and only rather more dangerous.
Froude—Short Studies on Great Subjects.
Party Politics.
Esto, ut nunc multi. dives tibi pauper amicis.
Be, as many now are, luxurious to yourself,
parsimonious to your friends.
Juvenal—Satires. V. US.
As for the largest-hearted of us, what is the
word we write most often in our cheque-books?
—"Self."
Eden Phillpotts—A Shadow Passes.
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd and unsung.
Scott—Lay of the Last Minsirel. Canto VI.
St. 1.
What need we any spur but our own cause,
To prick us to redress?
Julius Ceasar. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 123.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all
the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd
in music out of sight.
| author = Tennyson
| work = Locksley Hall. L. 33.
.
Selfishness is the only real atheism; aspiration,
unselfishness, the only real religion.
Zanqwill—Children of the Ghetto. Bk. n.
Ch. 16.
