Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud; but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
What freezings I have felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!
Base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them.
Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
A virtuous and a Christianlike conclusion-- To pray for them that have done scathe to us.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
What's the news? None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest, Then is doomsday near.
Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.
O powerful love, that in some respects makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast.
When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.
If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue.
Zounds! I was never so bethumped with words since I first called my brother's father dad.
Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours.
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.
Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
The sands are number'd that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough.
A good old man, sir. He will be talking. As they say, when the age is in, the wit is out.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
Grief hath two tongues; and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
What you have to do as a writer is . . . write day in and day out no matter what happens.
Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
Be equal to your talent, not your age. At times let the gap between them be embarrassing.
In ourselves we harbor the intuition of another evolution, of other possibilities of life.
Kinds hearts are here; yet would the tenderest one Have limits to its mercy; God has none.
I knowNot these my handsAnd yet I think there wasA woman like me once had handsLike these.
Art means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of power which holds it hostage.
All questions of the Law are to be decided only by appeal to my writings, each for himself
For me, writing is a way of finding out about things I didn't know before I began writing.
Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.
In vain sedate reflections we would make When half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.
Nature and nature's laws lay hid in the night. God said, Let Newton be! and all was light!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
There goes a saying, and 'twas shrewdly said, ''Old fish at table, but young flesh in bed.
New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise: So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try.
Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
Who pants for glory, finds but short repose; A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.