Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.
I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.
The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose.
I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour.
If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.
Switzerland is a curst, selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world.
It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe - you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.
What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
I have imbibed such a love for money that I keep some sequins in a drawer to count, and cry over them once a week.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth
I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
A mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and when it is over, anything but friends.
Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.
The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
Women hate everything which strips off the tinsel of sentiment, and they are right, or it would rob them of their weapons.
That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane
Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.
A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.
A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.
This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.
Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.
Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.
My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone!
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?
My turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then.
I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.
The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull!