Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
The house of laughter makes a house of woe.
They most the world enjoy who least admire.
By night an atheist half believes in a God.
Who combats with a brother, wounds himself.
Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
The person of wisdom is the person of years.
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.
They only babble who practise not reflection
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
All men think all men mortal, but themselves.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
They only babble who practise not reflection.
Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
And friend received with thumps upon the back.
Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!
They build too low who build beneath the skies.
One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.
He sins against this life, who slights the next.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.
Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.
Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.