. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. ght of day With a craven soul and fearful?Oh, a troubles a ton, or a troubles an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it isnt the fact that youre hurt that counts, But only how did you take it? You are beaten to earth? Well, well, whats that? Come up with a smiling nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there—thats harder youre thrown, why the higher you bounce Be proud of your blackened eye!It isnt the fact that youre licked that counts; Its how did you fight and why? And though you be done to
. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. ght of day With a craven soul and fearful?Oh, a troubles a ton, or a troubles an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it isnt the fact that youre hurt that counts, But only how did you take it? You are beaten to earth? Well, well, whats that? Come up with a smiling nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there—thats harder youre thrown, why the higher you bounce Be proud of your blackened eye!It isnt the fact that youre licked that counts; Its how did you fight and why? And though you be done to death, what then ? If you battled the best you could;If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the Critic will call it comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether hes slow or spry,It isnt the fact that youre dead that counts, But only, how did you die? From Impertinent Poems (by permission). Copyright 1903 by E. V. Cooke 1907 by Dodge Publishing Company. Page Forty-four @tt£ ]&tmittvii ztnb <§txz Jfiztmttns Querns. From a portrait in possessionof the Earl of Clarendon(Courtesy, The Outlook) Wolseys Farewell tohis Greatness This soliloquy of Wolsey occurs in the latter half ofAct 3, Scene 2. of Henry VIII, a play now agreedto be in some sense the joint work of Shakespeareand Fletcher. The soliloquy is generally accepted a»Fletchers writing. John Fletcher (Born December 20, 1579; Died August28, (?) 1625) Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!This is the state of man: today he puts forthThe tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ;The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ;And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surelyHis greatness is a-ripening—nips his root,And then he falls, as I do. I have venturd,Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,This many summers in a sea of glory,But far beyond my depth; my high blown prideAt length broke under me, and now has left me,Weary and
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