Background Image

...

A Material Resurrection Seems Strange And Even Absurd Except For Purposes Of Punishment, And All Punishment Which Is To Revenge Rather Than Correct Must Be Morally Wrong, And When The World Is At An End, What Moral Or Warning Purpose Can Eternal Tortures Answer?

-Lord Byron

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

A Material Resurrection Seems

Lord Byron

...

A Material Resurrection Seems Strange And Even Absurd Except For Purposes Of Punishment, And All Punishment Which Is To Revenge Rather Than Correct Must Be Morally Wrong, And When The World Is At An End, What Moral Or Warning Purpose Can Eternal Tortures Answer?

Views: 50091

Topic

More From Lord Byron

Lord Of Himself; That Heritage Of Woe!

Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication.

I Am Never Long, Even In The Society Of Her I Love, Without Yearning For The Company Of My Lamp And My Library.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

Just As Old Age Is Creeping On Space, And Clouds Come O'er The Sunset Of Our Day, They Kindly Leave Us, Though Not Quite Alone, But In Good Company--the Gout Or Stone.

With Thee All Tales Are Sweet; Each Clime Has Charms; Earth - Sea Alike - Our World Within Our Arms.

This Is To Be Mortal, And Seek The Things Beyond Mortality.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

Nothing So Fretful, So Despicable As A Scribbler, See What I Am, And What A Parcel Of Scoundrels I Have Brought About My Ears, And What Language I Have Been Obliged To Treat Them With To Deal With Them In Their Own Way; - All This Comes Of Authorship.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

Keep Thy Smooth Words And Juggling Homilies For Those Who Know Thee Not.

When Age Chills The Blood, When Our Pleasures Are Past - For Years Fleet Away With The Wings Of The Dove - The Dearest Remembrance Will Still Be The Last, Our Sweetest Memorial The First Kiss Of Love.

Pure Friendship's Well-feigned Blush.

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

As To Don Juan, Confess That It Is The Sublime Of That There Sort Of Writing; It May Be Bawdy, But Is It Not Good English? It May Be Profligate, But Is It Not Life, Is It Not The Thing? Could Any Man Have Written It Who Has Not Lived In The World? And Tooled In A Post-chaise? In A Hackney Coach? In A Gondola? Against A Wall? In A Court Carriage? In A Vis A Vis? On A Table? And Under It?

All Who Joy Would Win Must Share It. Happiness Was Born A Twin.

She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night Of Cloudless Climes And Starry Skies; And All That's Best Of Dark And Bright Meet In Her Aspect And Her Eyes.

A Mighty Mass Of Brick, And Smoke, And Shipping, Dirty And Dusty, But As Wide As Eye Could Reach, With Here And There A Sail Just Skipping In Sight, Then Lost Amidst The Forestry Of Masts; A Wilderness Of Steeples Peeping On Tiptoe Through Their Sea-coal Canopy; A Huge, Dun Cupola, Like A Fools-cap Crown On A Fool's Head - And There Is London Town.

This Is The Patent-age Of New Inventions For Killing Bodies, And For Saving Souls, All Propagated With The Best Intentions; Sir Humphrey Davy's Lantern, By Which Coals Are Safely Mined For In The Mode He Mentions, Tombuctoo Travels, Voyages To The Poles, Are Ways To Benefit Mankind, As True, Perhaps, As Shooting Them At Waterloo.

I Cannot Conceive Why People Will Always Mix Up My Own Character And Opinions With Those Of The Imaginary Beings Which, As A Poet, I Have The Right And Liberty To Draw.

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

A Good Coach Encourages The Same Type Of Resilience In The People They Work With. They Encourage Them To Take Risks. If The Risk Results In Failure, They Help All People To Learn From The Mistake And Then Go On To Try Another Way.

Like To The Apples On The Dead Sea's Shore, All Ashes To The Taste.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.

Armenian Is The Language To Speak With God.

My Hair Is Grey, But Not With Years, Nor Grew It White In A Single Night, As Men's Have Grown From Sudden Fears.

One Of The Pleasures Of Reading Old Letters Is The Knowledge That They Need No Answer.

The Law Of Heaven And Earth Is Life For Life.

Heaven And Earth

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

Good Work And Joyous Play Go Hand In Hand. When Play Stops, Old Age Begins. Play Keeps You From Taking Life Too Seriously.

All Heaven And Earth Are Still, Though Not In Sleep, But Breathless, As We Grow When Feeling Most.

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.

I Live, But Live To Die: And, Living, See Nothing To Make Death Hateful, Save An Innate Clinging, A Loathsome And Yet All Invincible Instinct Of Life, Which I Abhor, As I Despise Myself, Yet Cannot Overcome — And So I Live. Would I Had Never Lived!

Next To Dressing For A Rout Or Ball, Undressing Is A Woe.

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

This Is The Age Of Oddities Let Loose.

Such Is Your Cold Coquette, Who Can't Say "no," And Won't Say "yes," And Keeps You On And Off-ing On A Lee-shore, Till It Begins To Blow, Then Sees Your Heart Wreck'd, With An Inward Scoffing.

I Should Like To Know Who Has Been Carried Off, Except Poor Dear Me - I Have Been More Ravished Myself Than Anybody Since The Trojan War.

Think You, If Laura Had Been Petrarch's Wife, He Would Have Written Sonnets All His Life?.

O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

All Human History Attests That Happiness For Man, - The Hungry Sinner! - Since Eve Ate Apples, Much Depends On Dinner. ~lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto Xiii, Stanza 99

Ah, Nut-brown Partridges! Ah, Brilliant Pheasants! And Ah, Ye Poachers!--'tis No Sport For Peasants.

Sublime Tobacco! Which From East To West, Cheers The Tar's Labour Or The Turkman's Rest; Which On The Moslem's Ottoman Divides His Hours, And Rivals Opium And His Brides; Magnificent In Stamboul, But Less Grand, Though Not Less Loved, In Wapping Or The Strand: Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe, When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe; Like Other Charmers Wooing The Caress, More Dazzlingly When Daring In Full Dress; Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties Give Me A Cigar!

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

As Winds Come Whispering Lightly From The West, Kissing, Not Ruffling, The Blue Deep's Serene.

What Men Call Gallantry, And Gods Adultery, Is Much More Common Where The Climate's Sultry.

Then Rose From Sea To Sky The Wild Farewell Then Shriek'd The Timid, And Stood Still The Brave, Then Some Leap'd Overboard With Fearful Yell, As Eager To Anticipate Their Grave.

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse Is A Prose; Convincing All, By Demonstrating Plain – Poetic Souls Delight In Prose Insane

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

The Christian Has Greatly The Advantage Of The Unbeliever, Having Everything To Gain And Nothing To Lose.

Nothing To Lose

Good But Rarely Came From Good Advice.

What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have But History's Purchased Page To Call Them Great?

I Am Acquainted With No Immaterial Sensuality So Delightful As Good Acting.

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!

He Learned The Arts Of Riding, Fencing, Gunnery, And How To Scale A Fortress - Or A Nunnery.

A Woman Being Never At A Loss... The Devil Always Sticks By Them.

There Is No Such Thing As A Life Of Passion Any More Than A Continuous Earthquake, Or An Eternal Fever. Besides, Who Would Ever Shave Themselves In Such A State?

I Do Not Believe In Any Religion, I Will Have Nothing To Do With Immortality. We Are Miserable Enough In This Life Without Speculating Upon Another.

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.

Self-love For Ever Creeps Out, Like A Snake, To Sting Anything Which Happens To Stumble Upon It.

Fare Thee Well, And If For Ever Still For Ever Fare Thee Well.

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

If A Man Proves Too Clearly And Convincingly To Himself...that A Tiger Is An Optical Illusion--well, He Will Find Out He Is Wrong. The Tiger Will Himself Intervene In The Discussion, In A Manner Which Will Be In Every Sense Conclusive.

Optical Illusions

Love Will Find A Way Through Paths Where Wolves Fear To Prey.

Happy Valentines Day

Let No Man Grumble When His Friends Fall Off, As They Will Do Like Leaves At The First Breeze; When Your Affairs Come Round, One Way Or T'other, Go To The Coffee House, And Take Another.

Now What I Love In Women Is, They Won't Or Can't Do Otherwise Than Lie, But Do It. So Well, The Very Truth Seems Falsehood To It.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

You Gave Me The Key To Your Heart, My Love, Then Why Did You Make Me Knock?

I Have Great Hopes That We Shall Love Each Other All Our Lives As Much As If We Had Never Married At All.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend. The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend.

Smiles Form The Channels Of A Future Tear.

On With The Dance! Let Joy Be Unconfin'd No Sleep Till Morn, When Youth And Pleasure Meet To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet

Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies As Much A Part Of Me, As I Of Them?

He Makes A Solitude, And Calls It - Peace!

Why Do They Call Me Misanthrope? Because They Hate Me, Not I Them.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions... Think.

My Boat Is On The Shore, And My Bark Is On The Sea.

Yet Still There Whispers The Small Voice Within, Heard Through Gain's Silence, And O'er Glory's Din; Whatever Creed Be Taught Or Land Be Trod, Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

Be Thou The Rainbow In The Storms Of Life. The Evening Beam That Smiles The Clouds Away, And Tints Tomorrow With Prophetic Ray.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

Ye Stars! Which Are The Poetry Of Heaven!

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

Though Sages May Pour Out Their Wisdom's Treasure, There Is No Sterner Moralist Than Pleasure.

Eat, Drink And Love...the Rest Is Not Worth A Nickel

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Life Is Too Short

Life It Too Short

We Have Fools In All Sects, And Impostors In Most; Why Should I Believe Mysteries No One Can Understand, Because Written By Men Who Chose To Mistake Madness For Inspiration And Style Themselves Evangelicals?

But 'midst The Crowd, The Hum, The Shock Of Men, To Hear, To See, To Feel, And To Possess, And Roam Along, The World's Tired Denizen, With None Who Bless Us, None Whom We Can Bless.

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.

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.

Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As Cleopatra's Pearls.

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

Know Ye The Land Where The Cypress And Myrtle Are Emblems Of Deeds That Are Done In Their Clime? Where The Rage Of The Vulture, The Love Of The Turtle, Now Melt Into Sorrow, Now Madden To Crime!

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.

My Great Comfort Is, That The Temporary Celebrity I Have Wrung From The World Has Been In The Very Teeth Of All Opinions And Prejudices. I Have Flattered No Ruling Powers; I Have Never Concealed A Single Thought That Tempted Me.

The Coach Does Not Play In The Game, But The Coach Helps The Players Identify Areas To Improve Their Game.

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.

I Feel My Immortality Over Sweep All Pains, All Tears, All Time, All Fears, - And Peal, Like The Eternal Thunders Of The Deep, Into My Ears, This Truth, - Thou Livest Forever!

Do Proper Homage To Thine Idol's Eyes; But No Too Humbly, Or She Will Despise Thee And Thy Suit, Though Told In Moving Tropes: Disguise Even Tenderness If Thou Art Wise.

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.

Fair Greece! Sad Relic Of Departed Worth! Immortal, Though No More! Though Fallen, Great!

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

But Beef Is Rare Within These Oxless Isles; Goat's Flesh There Is, No Doubt, And Kid, And Mutton; And, When A Holiday Upon Them Smiles, A Joint Upon Their Barbarous Spits They Put On.

Mont Blanc Is The Monarch Of Mountains; They Crown'd Him Long Ago On A Throne Of Rocks, In A Robe Of Clouds, With A Diadem Of Snow.

Be Hypocritical, Be Cautious, Be Not What You Seem But Always What You See.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

The Castled Crag Of Drachenfels, Frowns O'er The Wide And Winding Rhine, Whose Breast Of Waters Broadly Swells Between The Banks Which Bear The Vine, And Hills All Rich With Blossom'd Trees, And Fields Which Promise Corn And Wine, And Scatter'd Cities Crowning These, Whose Far White Walls Along Them Shine.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

I Cannot Describe To You The Despairing Sensation Of Trying To Do Something For A Man Who Seems Incapable Or Unwilling To Do Anything Further For Himself.

Oh, Mirth And Innocence! Oh, Milk And Water! Ye Happy Mixture Of More Happy Days!

Sweet Is Revenge-especially To Women.

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

Socrates Said, Our Only Knowledge Was "to Know That Nothing Could Be Known;" A Pleasant Science Enough, Which Levels To An Ass Each Man Of Wisdom, Future, Past, Or Present. Newton, (that Proverb Of The Mind,) Alas! Declared, With All His Grand Discoveries Recent, That He Himself Felt Only "like A Youth Picking Up Shells By The Great Ocean-truth."

Oh! Too Convincing--dangerously Dear-- In Woman's Eye The Unanswerable Tear! That Weapon Of Her Weakness She Can Wield, To Save, Subdue--at Once Her Spear And Shield.

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.

May Moorland Weavers Boast Pindaric Skill, And Tailors' Lays Be Longer Than Their Bill! While Punctual Beaux Reward The Grateful Notes, And Pay For Poems--when They Pay For Coats.

To Have Joy, One Must Share It.

[armenian] Is A Rich Language, However, And Would Amply Repay Any One The Trouble Of Learning It.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - But Pages Might Be Filled Up, As Vainly As Before, With The Sad Usage Of All Sorts Of Sages, Who In His Life-time, Each Was Deemed A Bore! The Loftiest Minds Outrun Their Tardy Ages.

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time - Language - The Earth - The Bounds Of The Sea - The Stars Of The Sky, And Everything 'about, Around, And Underneath' Man, Except Man Himself, Who Has Always Been And Always Will Be, An Unlucky Rascal. The Infinite Variety Of Lives Conduct But To Death, And The Infinity Of Wishes Lead But To Disappointment. All The Discoveries Which Have Yet Been Made Have Multiplied Little But Existence.

It Is Not One Man Nor A Million, But The Spirit Of Liberty That Must Be Preserved. The Waves Which Dash Upon The Shore Are, One By One, Broken, But The Ocean Conquers Nevertheless. It Overwhelms The Armada, It Wears Out The Rock. In Like Manner, Whatever The Struggle Of Individuals, The Great Cause Will Gather Strength.

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

And Gentle Winds And Waters Near, Make Music To The Lonely Ear.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

It Is Not For Minds Like Ours To Give Or To Receive Flatter; Yet The Praises Of Sincerity Have Ever Been Permitted To The Voice Of Friendship

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.

I Have Always Believed That All Things Depended Upon Fortune, And Nothing Upon Ourselves.

Despair And Genius Are Too Oft Connected

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.

Ecclesiastes Said That "all Is Vanity," Most Modern Preachers Say The Same, Or Show It By Their Examples Of True Christianity: In Short, All Know, Or Very Short May Know It.

Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

The Cardinal Is At His Wit's End - It Is True That He Had Not Far To Go.

The Mind Can Make Substance, And People Planets Of Its Own With Beings Brighter Than Have Been, And Give A Breath To Forms Which Can Outlive All Flesh.

There's Music In The Sighing Of A Reed; There's Music In The Gushing Of A Rill; There's Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears; The Earth Is But The Music Of The Spheres.

Truth Is A Gem That Is Found At A Great Depth; Whilst On The Surface Of The World All Things Are Weighed By The False Scale Of Custom.

The Reason That Adulation Is Not Displeasing Is That, Though Untrue, It Shows One To Be Of Consequence Enough, In One Way Or Other, To Induce People To Lie.

This Is The Patent Age Of New Inventions For Killing Bodies, And For Saving Souls. All Propagated With The Best Intentions.

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

A Legal Broom's A Moral Chimney-sweeper, And That's The Reason He Himself's So Dirty

The Drying Up A Single Tear Has More, Of Honest Fame, Than Shedding Seas Of Gore.

Let Us Have Wine And Woman, Mirth And Laughter, Sermons And Soda Water The Day After. Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication: Glory, The Grape, Love, Gold, In These Are Sunk The Hopes Of All Men, And Of Every Nation; Without Their Sap, How Branchless Were The Trunk Of Life's Strange Tree, So Fruitful On Occasion: But To Return--get Very Drunk; And When You Wake With Head-ache, You Shall See What Then.

It Would Be Difficult, Perhaps, To Find The Annals Of A Nation Less Stained With Crimes Than Those Of The Armenians, Whose Virtues Have Been Those Of Peace, And Their Vices Those Of Compulsion. But Whatever May Have Been Their Destiny And It Has Been Bitter Whatever It May Be In Future, Their Country Must Ever Be One Of The Most Interesting On The Globe.

He Who Grown Aged In This World Of Woe, In Deeds, Not Years, Piercing The Depths Of Life, So That No Wonder Waits Him.

But Quiet To Quick Bosoms Is A Hell.

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

Where There Is Mystery, It Is Generally Suspected There Must Also Be Evil.

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

Think'st Thou There Is No Tyranny But That Of Blood And Chains? The Despotism Of Vice-- The Weakness And The Wickedness Of Luxury-- The Negligence--the Apathy--the Evils Of Sensual Sloth--produces Ten Thousand Tyrants, Whose Delegated Cruelty Surpasses The Worst Acts Of One Energetic Master, However Harsh And Hard In His Own Bearing.

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

As Soon Seek Roses In December, Ice In June, Hope Constancy In Wind, Or Corn In Chaff Believe A Woman Or An Epitaph Or Any Other Thing That’s False Before You Trust In Critics.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

Of All The Horrid, Hideous Notes Of Woe, Sadder Than Owl-songs Or The Midnight Blast; Is That Portentous Phrase, "i Told You So.

Dreading That Climax Of All Human Ills The Inflammation Of His Weekly Bills.

The Sky Is Changed,-and Such A Change! O Night And Storm And Darkness! Ye Are Wondrous Strong, Yet Lovely In Your Strength, As Is The Light Of A Dark Eye In Woman! Far Along, From Peak To Peak, The Rattling Crags Among, Leaps The Live Thunder.

It Is Odd But Agitation Or Contest Of Any Kind Gives A Rebound To My Spirits And Sets Me Up For A Time.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

Sometimes We Are Less Unhappy In Being Deceived By Those We Love, Than In Being Undeceived By Them.

Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld A Huge Fire Shine, And Cooks In Motion With Their Clean Arms Bared.

Tis Pleasing To Be School'd In A Strange Tongue By Female Lips And Eyes--that Is, I Mean, When Both The Teacher And The Taught Are Young, As Was The Case, At Least, Where I Have Been; They Smile So When One's Right; And When One's Wrong They Smile Still More.

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

He Was A Man Of His Times. With One Virtue And A Thousand Crimes. (the Corsair)

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

I Only Go Out To Get Me A Fresh Appetite For Being Alone.

Appetite For Life

Pleasure's A Sin, And Sometimes Sin's A Pleasure.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.

All Tragedies Are Finished By A Death, All Comedies Are Ended By A Marriage.

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

No More We Meet In Yonder Bowers Absence Has Made Me Prone To Roving; But Older, Firmer Hearts Than Ours, Have Found Monotony In Loving.

Always Laugh When You Can; It Is Cheap Medicine. Merriment Is A Philosophy Not Well Understood. It Is The Sunny Side Of Existence.

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!

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

This Man Is Freed From Servile Bands, Of Hope To Rise, Or Fear To Fall; Lord Of Himself, Though Not Of Lands, And Leaving Nothing, Yet Hath All.

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

It Is By Far The Most Elegant Worship, Hardly Excepting The Greek Mythology. What With Incense, Pictures, Statues, Altars, Shrines, Relics, And The Real Presence, Confession, Absolution, - There Is Something Sensible To Grasp At. Besides, It Leaves No Possibility Of Doubt; For Those Who Swallow Their Deity, Really And Truly, In Transubstantiation, Can Hardly Find Any Thing Else Otherwise Than Easy Of Digestion.

Let Not His Mode Of Raising Cash Seem Strange, Although He Fleeced The Flags Of Every Nation, For Into A Prime Minister But Change His Title, And 'tis Nothing But Taxation.

Trending Author

Berkeley Breathed

Category