There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.

Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself That skins the vice o' th' top; go to your bosom, Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault; if it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life.

O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.

Give unto me, made lowly wise,/ The spirit of self-sacrifice.

In ourselves our safety must be sought.
By our own right hand it must be wrought.

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 heard, 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.