SaturdayFeb 01, 2025
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread; Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.
Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little; we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
And he by no uncommon lot Was famed for virtues he had not.
An idler is a watch that wants both hands; As useless if it goes as when it stands.
Absence of occupation is not a rest; A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed.
Pleasure admitted in undue degree Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, Less on exterior things than most suppose.
They whom truth and wisdom lead Can gather honey from a weed.
The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.
The proud are always most provoked by pride.
The path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; no traveler ever reached that blessed abode who found not thorns and briars in his road.
The bird that flutters least is longest on the wing.
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute.
Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.
Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.
O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
In every heart Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war.
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside.
Vice stings us even in our pleasures, But virtue consoles us even in our pains.
Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart must hold both sisters, never seen apart.
Still ending, and beginning still.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Toll for the brave, The brave! that are no more: All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore.
Oh! for a closer walk with God.
Thousands... Kiss the book's outside who ne'er look within.
And differing judgments serve but to declare That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.
Nature is but a name for an effect, Whose cause is God.
Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
I cannot talk with civet in the room, A fine puss-gentleman that 's all perfume.
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true, A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.
The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow; and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, 'Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.'
When one that holds communion with the skies Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'T is e'en as if an angel shook his wings.
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man Will not affront me, and no other can.
God made the country, and man made the town.
The man that dares traduce, because he can with safety to himself, is not a man.
Beware of desperate steps; the darkest day, Lived till tomorrow, will have passed away.
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam Excels a dunce that has been kept at home!
Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.
England, with all thy faults I love thee still, My country!
A fool must now and then be right by chance.
Freedom hath a thousand charms to show, That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, And Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad Can he want occupation who has these?
Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.
E'vn in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor; much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
Happiness depends, as Nature shows, Less on exterior things than most suppose.
Knowledge is proud that he has learnd so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard: To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more.
A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
Lights of the world, and stars of human race.
Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!
Low ambition and the thirst of praise.
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ, The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.
The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.
Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons to love it, too.
Absence of occupation is not rest, A mind quite vacant is a mind distressd.
Feels himself spent and fumbles for his brains.
In indolent vacuity of thought.
Perhaps thou gavst me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds; And as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleased With melting airs or martial, brisk, or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower; Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads.
Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains. Which only poets know.
Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
Th embroidry of poetic dreams.
He found it inconvenient to be poor.
Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid.
Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
'Tis hard if all is false that I advance A fool must now and then be right, by chance.
The sounding jargon of the schools.
But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct; The language plain, and incidents well linkd; Tell not as new what evry body knows; and, new or old, still hasten to a close.
He would not, with a peremptory tone, Assert the nose upon his face his own.
The solemn fop; significant and budge; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge.
As if the world and they were hand and glove.
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to the last retreat.
A life all turbulence and noise may seem To him that leads it wise and to be praised, But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still waters.
But war 's a game which were their subjects wise Kings would not play at.
No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest, till half mankind were, like himself, possest.
His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home.
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