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The patient decides when it's best to go.

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He Decides

Cant you hear them whispering
Around you all the time
Cant you tell the difference between
Things when youre in love
I hear your voice is trembling
Everytime when hes around
Your detached engagements
In the things I say means love, oh
He decides whether you should smile
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be happy
He decides whether you should smile
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be sad
If he doesnt love you
Youre afraid that you cant go on
Living without loving
Never makes a person strong, no
If he really loves you
Let him show you that instead
I will be here with you
cause I know that youre afraid of love
He decides whether you should smile
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be happy
He decides whether you should smile
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be sad
Youll never change my mind my friend
Dont let that feeling go
This love might change your world around
In time youll have to know, oh yeah
Whether you should go
Oh yeah
He decides whether you should smile
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be happy
He decides whether you should smile
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be sad
Whether you should be happy
Whether you should cry
Whether you should be happy
He decides
Whether you
I know that
He decides

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Keeping A Light

Written by natalie cole
Hey, did you happen to see my sweet baby?
He was walkin on down the road
Tell him for me that if you see him tonight
Everything is alright
cause I know how he gets when hes low
Oh, hes a beautiful man
Kinda hard to understand but
Hes the only good man that I know
Wont you tell him for me
Im keepin a light shinin in the window
Just in case he decides to come home
Shining in the window just in case he decides to come home
(hes a beautiful man, kinda hard to understand)
But hes the only good man that I know
Wont you tell him for me? (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him)
Im keeping a light (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him) shining in the window
Just in case he decides to come home (ooh, ah)
Shining in the window
Just in case he decides to come home
Oh, we had quite a spat and that was all that but
We both said things that we didnt mean
Wont you tell him for me (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him)
Im keeping a light (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him) shining in the window
Just in case he decides to come home (ooh, ah)
Shining in the window
In case he decides to come home
Im keepin (ooh, ah) a light, baby
Just in case he decides to come home
Cant (ooh, ah) you see the light?
Cant (ooh, ah) you see the light?
Keepin (ooh, ah) a light, baby
Just in case he decides to come home
Oh, (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him) just in case, just in case
Im keeping a light, baby (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him)
Just in case, just in case
Oh say can you see (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him)
My light, shinin, shining, (just in case) shining
I wonder can you see my light shinin, (tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him, just in case) burnin, shinin, burnin, shinin, burnin

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No Life Is Right Until Lived

When the thrill of living my life has quieted to end,
I will not be discovered procrastinating with any fears.
Or recovering from regrets,
Of not facing challenges to overcome when first met.
Nor is my life in any position for anyone to place bets.
Although I may choose to take those risks 'I' accept.

I am a work-in-progress taking forward not backward steps.
I live a life lived unafraid to make mistakes.
And those monitoring perfection based upon etiquette,
Are powerless to suggest what my identity should be to please.
Since this life I live is 'my' experience without boundaries.
And I will dream to adventure and explore to make known.

No life is right until lived as one decides it.
With...
Or without,
Judgements heard that are passed.

With...
Or without,
Judgements heard that are passed...
No life is right until lived as one decides it.

No life is right until lived as one decides it.
And...
As one decides what life is right for them to live,
Who can demonstrate what perfection is?

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Mrs. Train

Mrs. Train
I don't want to be first in line to see Mrs. Train
I expect that it doesn't matter to Mrs. Train
Being comfortable with yourself
And being patient and taking your time
Are the things that Mrs. Train can understand
I've never seen a train like this before
But then again there's never been
A train like this before like Mrs. Train
And someone's got to be the one to declare
That they want to be next in line to see Mrs. Train
But I don't want to be first in line to see Mrs. Train
I expect that it doesn't matter to Mrs. Train
Being patient and taking your time
Are things a train can understand
And I'll be happy when I finally take her hand
There's never been a train like this before.
Someone's got to be the one
At the head of the line to first see Mrs. Train.
But I'm not in any rush to head the line
And so the line has a missing head.
And I don't want to be first in line to see the missing head
I expect that it doesn't matter to the missing head
Being patient and taking your time
Are things that a head can understand
And I'll be happy when I finally take its hand
There's never been a head like this before
Someone's got to be the one
At the head of the line to first see the missing head
But I'm not in any rush to head the line
And so the line has a missing head
(Missing head) And I don't want to be first in line to see the missing head
(Missing head) I expect that it doesn't matter to the missing head
Being patient and taking your time
Are things that a head can understand
And I'll be happy when I finally take its hand
(Missing head) And I don't want to be first in line to see the missing head
(Missing head) I expect that it doesn't matter to the missing head
Being patient and taking your time
Are things that a head can understand
And I'll be happy when I finally take its hand
(Missing head) I don't want to be first in line to see the missing head
(Missing head) I expect that it doesn't matter to the missing head
Being patient and taking your time
Are things that a head can understand
And I'll be happy when I finally take its hand

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Essay on Psychiatrists

I. Invocation

Its crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more

Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,

And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens

Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.


II. Some Terms

“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents

And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop

Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient

Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.


III. Proposition

These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations

Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means

Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm

[...] Read more

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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

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The Patient Mental

Patient,
Just as I am,
As always,
Watch the time go by,
Nothing left to pass by,
The minutes follow me,
Drunken little people,
Work away in me,
Why wont they leave me, leave me alone
When I dont even want me, want me
I have to, kill the words,
Before they, form my sentence,
The sentence that is me,
Judged by those that carry
The patient sits in cradled arms
That comfort me by strangling
Why wont they leave me, leave me alone
When I dont even want me,
The patient mental sits and stares
An idle mind thats empty, screaming
Staring back
Why wont they leave him, leave him alone
A passive speared ritual
Drive by our war ship...the hate driven envy
They have to kill the meal,
Before they can consume,
Consume my inner peace,
Without the understanding,
Trapped inside the works,
The hands are moving me
The patient mental sits and stares
An idle mind thats empty, screaming
Staring back
Why wont they leave him, leave him alone
A passive speared ritual
Drive by our war ship...the hate driven envy
Release me,
Let me go,
Why do they observe me?
Theres nothing here to cure,
I can see the silhouettes,
That sit behind the mirror
Im just like a clock upon the wall
Always moving, but never going anywhere
The patient mental sits and stares
An idle mind thats empty, screaming
Staring back
Why wont they leave him, leave him alone
A passive speared ritual
Drive by our war ship...the hate driven envy

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

[...] Read more

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Under Patient Conditions

If you want to win you've got to stack the pack.
Sitting and wishing wont bring the cash.
Those with dreams work hard at tasks.
Ambition with a mission is the right ammunition.

Under patient conditions anyone can fix what's missing.
Under patient conditions anyone can fix what's missing.
Under patient conditions anyone can fix what's missing.
Ambition with a mission is the right ammunition.

If you want to win you've got to stack the pack.
Sitting and wishing wont bring the cash.
Those with dreams work hard at tasks.
Ambition with a mission is the right ammunition.

Under patient conditions anyone can fix what's missing.
Under patient conditions anyone can fix what's missing.
If you want to win you've got to stack the pack.
Sitting and wishing wont bring the cash.
Those with dreams work hard at tasks.
Ambition with a mission is the right ammunition.

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The Morning Visit

A sick man's chamber, though it often boast
The grateful presence of a literal toast,
Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,
The right unchallenged to propose a health;
Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,
Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,
As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips,
Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.

The morning visit,--not till sickness falls
In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;
Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack
Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;
Not till you play the patient in your turn,
The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.

'T is a small matter in your neighbor's case,
To charge your fee for showing him your face;
You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch,
Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.

But when at length, by fate's transferred decree,
The visitor becomes the visitee,
Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string;
Your ox is gored, and that's a different thing!
Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk,
You write your recipe and let it work;
Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown,
And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down.
Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs,
_Rhei, jalapae ana grana sex_,
Or traces on some tender missive's back,
_Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac_;
And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes,
Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes.
But change the time, the person, and the place,
And be yourself 'the interesting case,'
You'll gain some knowledge which it's well to learn;
In future practice it may serve your turn.
Leeches, for instance,--pleasing creatures quite;
Try them,--and bless you,--don't you find they bite?
You raise a blister for the smallest cause,
But be yourself the sitter whom it draws,
And trust my statement, you will not deny
The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish fly!
It's mighty easy ordering when you please,
_Infusi sennae capiat uncias tres_;
It's mighty different when you quackle down
Your own three ounces of the liquid brown.
_Pilula, pulvis_,--pleasant words enough,

[...] Read more

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John H. Patterson

An executive is a person who always decides; sometimes he decides correctly, but he always decides.

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John H. Patterson

An executive is a person who always decides sometimes he decides correctly, but he always decides.

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Gravity Decides

I collide with the world again
Creep with the summer on my skin
Strapped to machinery, theory and catastrophe
Open up and let it in
Radar, we are, could be willing
Spot my eyes and cross the line
Tell me Im more than Im feeling
Say the mirror only lies
Theres more than gravity pushing on me
I know the hearts a muscle, too
See a pulse up close and quiver
Still holding back the rapture
Theres more than gravity pushing on me
Gravity decides
Radar, we are, could be willing
Spot my eyes and cross the line
Tell me Im more than Im feeling
Say the mirror only lies
Theres more than gravity pushing on me
I know the hearts a muscle, too
See a pulse up close and quiver
Still holding back the rapture
Theres more than gravity pushing on me
Gravity decides
Mirrors only lie
Gravity decides

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Run Of The Mill

Everyone has choice
When to and not to raise their voices
Its you that decides
Which way will you turn
While feeling that our loves not your concern
Its you that decides
No one around you
Will carry the blame for you
No one around you
Will love you today and throw it all away
Tomorrow when you rise
Another day for you to realize me
Or send me down again
As the days stand up on end
Youve got me wondering how I lost your friendship
But I see it in your eyes
Though Im beside you
I cant carry the lame for you
I may decide to
Get out with your blessing
Where Ill carry on guessing
How high will you leap
Will you make enough for you to reap it?
Only youll arrive
At your own made end
With no one but yourself to be offended
Its you that decides

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Have You Heard The News?

Flying thru the airwaves
Living thru the printed word
Flasher in the living room
Guru of the seen and heard
Who decides what we get to hear?
Fuzzy round the edges
Or making it clear?
Blinding us with those facts
Blinding us with those facts
Chorus
Have you heard the news?
Wo wo wo wooo
Have you heard the news?
Written on the black and white page
We cant believe what we read
Doubting of reality
Has become the new rage
Who says that truth is stranger than fiction?
Money [it talks] and it will cause less friction
A few white lies for a nice little sensation
Chorus
Little box in the corner
A picture worth a thousand words
But who chooses which pictures we see?
Who decides on the commentary?
Keeping people in a state of confusion
Theres a thin line between facts and illusion
Diverting our attention from big brother in the city
Chorus
When will we get, when will we get to the real nitty gritty,
Nitty gritty, nitty gritty
When will we get to it, when will we get to it now, when will we get to
It
When will we get to it?
Living thru the printed word
[flasher] in the living room
Guru of the seen and heard
Who decides what we get to hear?
Fuzzy round the edges
Or making it clear?
Blinding us with those facts oh
Blinding us with those facts
Chorus
Have you heard, have you heard?
Chorus

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The One Who Decides

There is no fight for terrificness,
With votes to split...
To see who sits on thrones.
No panel of judges,
Or audience call-ins...
To pick who is the best of all!

When a writer is alone,
And inspiration begins to creep...
There is no sleeping!
Maybe some weeping!
Perhaps some frustration...
From attempts to produce a creation!

But when a writer is alone,
And a thought becomes complete...
The ultimate winner is you the reader.
The one who decides,
If the message delivered...
Is one to criticize.
Or if the writer wants what's read...
To be taken to depths,
Inside one's head!

There is no fight for terrificness,
With votes to split...
To see who sits on thrones.
No panel of judges,
Or audience call-ins...
To pick who is the best of all!

The one who decides,
If the message delivered...
Is one to criticize.
Or one that makes the shivering inside...
Going below surfaces,
Unexpected and undenied.
That would be 'you' the reader...
The one who decides to take it deeper!
Giving the writer a purpose to keep,
You...
The reader,
Either laughing...
Or weeping!
With creations,
That give you creeps!

BOO! !

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The Four Seasons : Summer

From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry Hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom;
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptured glance
Shot on surrounding Heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the Poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful Muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite:
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius, and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastised; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combined;
Unblemish'd honour, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and Man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men,
And all their labour'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course;
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect hand!
That poised, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek'd-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east:
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,

[...] Read more

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The Highlanders: Part IV

NOW Winter pours his terrors o'er the plain,
And icy barriers close the wild domain,
From the fierce North the sweeping blast descends,
And drifted snow in wild confusion blends;
The Mountain-Cataract, whose thundering sound
Made echoes tremble in their caves around,
Now dashing with diminish'd majesty,
In frozen state suspended seems on high;
While in the midst a small contracted stream
Tinkles like rills that lull the shepherd's dream.
The River crusted o'er, and hid in snow,
Unfaithful tempts the traveller below;
While pools and boiling springs, unsafe beneath,
Betray th' unwary to the snares of death.
How awful now appears Night's silent reign!
Where lofty mountains bound the solemn scene.
While Nature, wrapt in chilly bright disguise,
And sunk in deep repose, unconscious lies;
And through the pure cerulean vault above,
In lucid order constellations move:
The milky-way, conspicuous glows on high.
Redoubled lustre sparkles through the sky;
And rapid splendours, from the dark-blue North,
In streams of brightness pour incessant forth;
While crusted mountain-snows reflect the light,
And radiance decks the sable brows of night.
Now, though their herds excite their anxious care,
Tir'd Labour slumbers with the shining share:
Short while they ply the flail, the scanty corn,
Dealt out with frugal care, employs the morn:
But social glee, around the cheerful hearth,
Lets loose the careless soul of rural mirth:
Bright burns the hearth, th' enlivening torches blaze,
The pipes awake the notes of former days:
Again they feel their ancient spirit rise,
And courage fires, or pity melts their eyes,
As love or war alternate swells the sound,
And hearts dilate, and bosoms glow around:
Yet even while frost comes bitter on the breeze,
Not all their nights are spent in social ease.
Some bolder spirits of the hardy race,
O'er snow-clad mountains wake the dangerous chase;
And some advent'rous youths, with fearless mind,
All thoughts of ease and safety leave behind,
The pathless wilds for wandering steers explore,
Climb the steep rock where nestling Falcons soar,
And heights by human feet untrod before.
There, danger threats in every hideous form,
There groans the Genius of the gathering storm;
And solitude forlorn, and frantic fear,

[...] Read more

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The Interpretation of Nature and

I.

MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.


II.

Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.

III.

Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.

IV.

Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.

V.

The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.

VI.

It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.

VII.

The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.

VIII.

Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.

IX.

The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.

X.

The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.

XI.

As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.

XII.

The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.

XIII.

[...] Read more

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Jam..

On the road
Sound horn
Running ambulance...

Jam on the road
Many buses
Bycycles
Twoweller's
Car's
Stoped ther...

Ambulance
Also stoped...

Patient was
Critical stage
In side the ambulance...

Road way was
Not clear...

O2 cylinder
was emty;
patient respration
Was very fast...

The road way
Clear ambulance
Move very fast...
But;
Patient was serieas
On the ambulance...

Sound horn only
Shouting
Way for the road
Patient was died...

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