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Ulysses (to Achilles who has been resting on his laurels): Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright; to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mock'ry. Take the instant way; For honor travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast. Keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue. If you give way, Like to an ent'red tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; . . . Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by th' hand, And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer.
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