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Toward seven o'clock every morning, I leave my study and step Out on the bright terrace; the sun already burns resplendent Between the shadows of the fig tree, makes the low wall of coarse Granite warm to the touch. Here my tools lie ready and waiting, Each one an intimate, an ally: the round basket for weeds: The zappetta, the small hoe with a short haft ... There's a rake here as well, at at times a mattock and spade, Or two watering cans filled with water warmed by the sun. With my basket and small hoe in hand, facing the sun, I Go out for my morning walk. Herman Hesse		Tuesday Jul 15, 2025
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Virtue is the fount whence honour springs. Christopher "Kit" Marlowe

Quote Author: Christopher "Kit" Marlowe

	Christopher "Kit" Marlowe
	Christopher "Kit" Marlowe (baptised 26 February 1564 - 30 May 1593) was an English dramatist, poet, and translator of the Elizabethan era. The foremost Elizabethan tragedian before William Shakespeare, he is known for his magnificent blank verse, his overreaching protagonists, and his own untimely death. Read More

Other Christopher "Kit" Marlowe Quotes

O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the Beauty of a thousand stars.

Sweet Analytics 'tis thou has ravished me.

What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera, What will be, shall be.

Like unturned golden strings all women are Which long time lie untouched, will harshly jar.

Things that are not at all, are never lost.

Goodness is beauty in its best estate.

Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness.

I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance.

Here come two religious caterpillars.

Who ever loved that loved not at first sight.

We will all the pleasures prove.

Why this is hell, nor am I out of it: Thinkst thou that I who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells In being deprived of everlasting bliss! ... When all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

Accurst be he that first invented war.

Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.

Virtue is the fount whence honour springs.