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We May Taste Of Every Turn Of Chance - Now Rule As Kings, Now Serve As Slaves; Now Love, Now Hate; Now Prosper, And Now Perish. But Still, Through All, We Are The Same; For This Is The Marvel Of Identity.

-H. Rider Haggard

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We May Taste Of

H. Rider Haggard

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We May Taste Of Every Turn Of Chance - Now Rule As Kings, Now Serve As Slaves; Now Love, Now Hate; Now Prosper, And Now Perish. But Still, Through All, We Are The Same; For This Is The Marvel Of Identity.

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More From H. Rider Haggard

Memory Haunts Me From Age To Age, And Passion Leads Me By The Hand--evil Have I Done, And With Sorrow Have I Made Acquaintance From Age To Age, And From Age To Age Evil Shall I Do, And Sorrow Shall I Know Till My Redemption Comes.

It Is Not Wise To Neglect The Present For The Future, For Who Knows What The Future Will Be?

We White People Think That We Know Everything.

It Is A Well-known Fact That Very Often, Putting The Period Of Boyhood Out Of The Argument, The Older We Grow The More Cynical And Hardened We Become; Indeed, Many Of Us Are Only Saved By Timely Death From Moral Petrification, If Not From Moral Corruption.

Moral Corruption

It Is A Hard Thing When One Has Shot Sixty-five Lions Or More, As I Have In The Course Of My Life, That The Sixty-sixth Should Chew Your Leg Like A Quid Of Tobacco. It Breaks The Routine Of The Thing, And Putting Other Considerations Aside, I Am An Orderly Man And Don't Like That. This Is By The Way.

The Food That Memory Gives To Eat Is Bitter To The Taste, And It Is Only With The Teeth Of Hope That We Can Bear To Bite It.

Man Doeth This And Doeth That From The Good Or Evil Of His Heart; But He Knows Not To What End His Sense Doth Prompt Him; For When He Strikes He Is Blind To Where The Blow Shall Fall, Nor Can He Count The Airy Threads That Weave The Web Of Circumstance. Good And Evil, Love And Hate, Night And Day, Sweet And Bitter, Man And Woman, Heaven Above And The Earth Beneath--all Those Things Are Needful, One To The Other, And Who Knows The End Of Each?

We May Taste Of Every Turn Of Chance - Now Rule As Kings, Now Serve As Slaves; Now Love, Now Hate; Now Prosper, And Now Perish. But Still, Through All, We Are The Same; For This Is The Marvel Of Identity.

A Sharp Spear Needs No Polish.

As I Grow Older, I Regret To Say That A Detestable Habit Of Thinking Seems To Be Getting A Hold Of Me.

As For The Girl, Since She Is Well Favoured, She Shall Brew The King's Beer, And Be Numbered Amongst The King's Wives-unless, Indeed, He Is Pleased To Give Her To Me.

Think Then What It Is To Live On Here Eternally And Yet Be Human; Toage In Soul And See Our Beloved Die And Pass To Lands Whither We Maynot Hope To Follow; To Wait While Drop By Drop The Curse Of The Longcenturies Falls Upon Our Imperishable Being, Like Water Slow Drippingon A Diamond That It Cannot Wear, Till They Be Born Anew Forgetful Ofus, And Again Sink From Our Helpless Arms Into The Void Unknowable.

The Law Of England Is Much More Severe Upon Offences Against Property Than Against The Person, As Becomes A People Whose Ruling Passion Is Money.

I Am Not A Nervous Man In A General Way, And Very Little Troubled With Superstitions, Of Which I Have Lived To See The Folly.

Truly The Universe Is Full Of Ghosts, Not Sheeted Churchyard Spectres, But The Inextinguishable Elements Of Individual Life, Which Having Once Been, Can Never Die, Though They Blend And Change, And Change Again For Ever.

The Acorn Of Ambition Often Grows Into An Oak From Which Men Hang.

Now, After These Things Were Done, The Pharaoh And His Queen Drove Through The Hosts Of Egypt In Their Golden Chariot, And Received The Homage Of The Hosts Ere They Departed Northwards For Thebes. At Nightfall They Returned Again And Sat Side By Side At The Marriage Feast, And Once More Tua Swept Her Harp Of Ivory And Gold, And Sang The Ancient Song Of Him Who Dared Much For Love, And Won The Prize.

Passion Is Like The Lightning, It Is Beautiful, And It Links The Earth To Heaven, But Alas It Blinds!

Yea, All Things Live Forever, Though At Times They Sleep And Are Forgotten.

The Almighty Gave Us Our Lives, And I Suppose He Meant Us To Defend Them, At Least I Have Always Acted On That, And I Hope It Will Not Be Brought Up Against Me When My Clock Strikes.

Time After Time Have Nations, Ay, And Rich And Strong Nations, Learned In The Arts, Been, And Passed Away To Be Forgotten, So That No Memory Of Them Remains. This Is But One Of Several; For Time Eats Up The Works Of Man.

Truly Wealth, Which Men Spend All Their Lives In Acquiring, Is A Valueless Thing At The Last.

Mistrust All Men, And Slay Him Whom Thou Mistrustest Overmuch; And As For Women, Flee From Them, For They Are Evil, And In The End Will Destroy Thee.

And Now Let Us Love And Take That Which Is Given Us, And Be Happy; For In The Grave There Is No Love And No Warmth, Nor Any Touching Of The Lips. Nothing Perchance, Or Perchance But Bitter Memories Of What Might Have Been.

Wealth Is Good, And If It Comes Our Way We Will Take It; But A Gentleman Does Not Sell Himself For Wealth.

I Have Never Observed That The Religious Are More Eager To Die Than The Rest Of Us Poor Mortals.

Women Love The Last Blow As Well As The Last Word, And When They Fight For Love They Are Pitiless As A Wounded Buffalo.

The Great Wheel Of Fate Rolls On Like A Juggernaut, And Crushes Us All In Turn, Some Soon, Some Late

Everything Has An End, If Only You Live Long Enough To See It.

The Sky Aft Was Dark As Pitch, But The Moon Still Shone Brightly Ahead Of Us And Lit Up The Blackness. Beneath Its Sheen A Huge White-topped Breaker, Twenty Feet High Or More, Was Rushing On To Us. It Was On The Break-the Moon Shone On Its Crest And Tipped Its Foam With Light. On It Rushed Beneath The Inky Sky, Driven By The Awful Squall Behind It.

Strange Are The Pictures Of The Future That Mankind Can Thus Draw With This Brush Of Faith And These Many-coloured Pigments Of The Imagination! Strange, Too, That No One Of Them Tallies With Another!

It Is Awkward To Listen To Oneself Being Praised, And I Was Always A Shy Man.

Thinking Can Only Serve To Measure Out The Helplessness Of Thought.

Ah! How Little Knowledge Does A Man Acquire In His Life. He Gathers It Up Like Water, But Like Water It Runs Between His Fingers, And Yet, If His Hands Be But Wet As Though With Dew, Behold A Generation Of Fools Call Out, 'see, He Is A Wise Man!' Is It Not So?

We Were Like Confirmed Opium-eaters: In Our Moments Of Reason We Well Knew The Deadly Nature Of Our Pursuit, But We Certainly Were Not Prepared To Abandon Its Terrible Delights.

Civilization Is Only Savagery Silver-gilt.

We Run To Place And Power Over The Dead Bodies Of Those Who Fail And Fall; Ay, We Win The Food We Eat From Out The Mouths Of Starving Babes.

Adventurer: He That Goes To Meet Whatever May Come. Well, That Is What We All Do In The World One Way Or Another.

There Is No Such Things As Magic, Though There Is Such A Thing As Knowledge Of The Hidden Ways Of Nature.

It Is Far. But There Is No Journey Upon This Earth That A Man May Not Make If He Sets His Heart To It. There Is Nothing, Umbopa, That He Cannot Do, There Are No Mountains He May Not Climb, There Are No Deserts He Cannot Cross; Save A Mountain And A A Desert Of Which You Are Spared The Knowledge, If Love Leads Him And He Holds His Life In His Hand Counting It As Nothing, Ready To Keep It Or To Lose It As Providence May Order.

Man's Cleverness Is Almost Indefinite, And Stretches Like An Elastic Band, But Human Nature Is Like An Iron Ring. You Can Go Round And Round It, You Can Polish It Highly, You Can Even Flatten It A Little On One Side, Whereby You Will Make It Bulge Out The Other, But You Will Never, While The World Endures And Man Is Man, Increase Its Total Circumference.

Ah! If Man Would But See That Hope Is From Within And Not From Without - That He Himself Must Work Out His Own Salvation.

There Are Things And There Are Faces Which, When Felt Or Seen For The First Time, Stamp Themselves Upon The Mind Like A Sun Image On A Sensitized Plate And There Remain Unalterably Fixed.

My Death Is Very Near To Me, And Of This I Am Glad, For I Desire To Pursue The Quest In Other Realms, As It Has Been Promised To Me That I Shall Do.

That Which Is Alive Hath Known Death, And That Which Is Dead Can Never Die, For In The Circle Of The Spirit Life Is Naught And Death Is Naught. Yea, All Things Live Forever, Though At Times They Sleep And Are Forgotten.

It Is Curious To Look Back And Realize Upon What Trivial And Apparently Coincidental Circumstances Great Events Frequently Turn As Easily And Naturally As A Door On Its Hinges.

How Can A World Be Good In Which Money Is The Moving Power, And Self-interest The Guiding Star?

Truly Time Should Be Measured By Events, And Not By The Lapse Of Hours.

Laughter And Bitterness Are Often The Veils With Which A Sore Heart Wraps Its Weakness From The World.

There Is No Loneliness Like The Loneliness Of Crowds, Especially To Those Who Are Unaccustomed To Them.

Men And Women, Empires And Cities, Thrones, Principalities, And Powers, Mountains, Rivers, And Unfathomed Seas, Worlds, Spaces, And Universes, All Have Their Day, And All Must Go.

So They Crucified Their Messiah? Well Can I Believe It. That He Was A Son Of The Living Spirit Would Be Naught To Them, If Indeed He Was So.... They Would Care Little For Any God If He Came Not With Pomp And Power.

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