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Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

-Petrarch

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Sameness Is The Mother

Petrarch

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Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

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I Looked Back At The Summit Of The Mountain, Which Seemed But A Cubit High In Comparison With The Height Of Human Contemplation, Were In Not Too Often Merged In The Corruptions Of The Earth.

Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That Hard Stone Whereunder Lies My Darling, Lies My Dear, And Cry To Her To Speak From Heaven's Sphere.

A Short Cut To Riches Is To Subtract From Our Desires.

Death Had His Grudge Against Me, And He Got Up In The Way, Like An Armed Robber, With A Pike In His Hand.

I Would Have Preferred To Have Been Born In Any Other Time Than Our Own.

Rarely Do Great Beauty And Great Virtue Dwell Together.

The End Of Doubt Is The Beginning Of Repose.

Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances

If A Hundred Or A Thousand People, All Of The Same Age, Of The Same Constitution And Habits, Were Suddenly Seized By The Same Illness, And One Half Of Them Were To Place Themselves Under The Care Of Doctors, Such As They Are In Our Time, Whilst The Other Half Entrusted Themselves To Nature And To Their Own Discretion, I Have Not The Slightest Doubt That There Would Be More Cases Of Death Amongst The Former, And More Cases Of Recovery Among The Latter.

Where Are The Numerous Constructions Erected By Agrippa, Of Which Only The Pantheon Remains? Where Are The Splendorous Palaces Of The Emperors?

How Difficult It Is To Save The Bark Of Reputation From The Rocks Of Ignorance.

Man Has No Greater Enemy Than Himself. I Have Acted Contrary To My Sentiments And Inclination; Throughout Our Whole Lives We Do What We Never Intended, And What We Proposed To Do, We Leave Undone.

For Virtue Only Finds Eternal Fame.

I Freeze And Burn, Love Is Bitter And Sweet, My Sighs Are Tempests And My Tears Are Floods, I Am In Ecstasy And Agony, I Am Possessed By Memories Of Her And I Am In Exile From Myself.

The Aged Love What Is Practical While Impetuous Youth Longs Only For What Is Dazzling.

Reality Is Always The Foe Of Famous Names.

Love Is The Crowning Grace Of Humanity, The Holiest Right Of The Soul, The Golden Link Which Binds Us To Duty And Truth, The Redeeming Principle That Chiefly Reconciles The Heart To Life, And Is Prophetic Of Eternal Good.

Hope Is Incredible To The Slave Of Grief.

From Thought To Thought, From Mountain Peak To Mountain. Love Leads Me On; For I Can Never Still My Trouble On The World's Well Beaten Ways.

Whyle I Was Abowte To Chaunge Myn Olde Lyff-- What Sorowe I Suffred, Dyseese, Angre And Stryff, Cracchynge Myn Here, My Chekys All Totare, Wrythynge My Fyngres For Angwysshe And Care, Watrynge The Erthe With My Byttre Salte Teres That The Crye Of My Syghes Ascended To Goddys Eres, My Knees With Myn Handys Grasped Togedyre Soore, And Yitt I Stode The Same Man I Was Afore Tyl A Depe Profounde Remembraunce Att The Laste Hadd All My Wrecchednesse Afore Myn Eyn Caste

The Greater I Am, The Greater Shall Be My Efforts.

Great Errors Seldom Originate But With Men Of Great Minds.

The Time Will Come When Every Change Shall Cease, This Quick Revolving Wheel Shall Rest In Peace: No Summer Then Shall Glow, Not Winter Freeze; Nothing Shall Be To Come, And Nothing Past, But An Eternal Now Shall Ever Last.

Perhaps Out There, Somewhere, Someone Is Sighing For Your Absence; And With This Thought, My Soul Begins To Breathe.

When The Poet Died His Cat Was Put To Death And Mummified.

Where You Are Is Of No Moment, But Only What You Are Doing There. It Is Not The Place That Ennobles You, But You The Place, And This Only By Doing That Which Is Great And Noble.

He Loves But Lightly Who His Love Can Tell.

It May Be Only Glory That We Seek Here, But I Persuade Myself That, As Long As We Remain Here, That Is Right. Another Glory Awaits Us In Heaven And He Who Reaches There Will Not Wish Even To Think Of Earthly Fame.

All Pleasure In The World Is A Passing Dream.

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

Life In Itself Is Short Enough, But The Physicians With Their Art, Know To Their Amusement, How To Make It Still Shorter.

Ruthless Striving, Overcomes Everything.

Virtue Is Health, Vice Is Sickness.

Who Naught Suspects Is Easily Deceived.

Books Can Warm The Heart With Friendly Words And Counsel, Entering Into A Close Relationship With Us Which Is Articulate And Alive

While Life Is In Your Body, You Have The Rein Of All Thoughts In Your Hands.

Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is Nothing Sweet Which Does Not Presently End In Bitterness.

You Keep To Your Own Ways And Leave Mine To Me.

Hitherto Your Eyes Have Been Darkened And You Have Looked Too Much, Yes, Far Too Much, Upon The Things Of Earth. If These So Much Delight You What Shall Be Your Rapture When You Lift Your Gaze To Things Eternal!

Who Over-refines His Argument Brings Himself To Grief

Books Never Pall On Me. They Discourse With Us, They Take Counsel With Us, And Are United To Us By A Certain Living Chatty Familiarity. And Not Only Does Each Book Inspire The Sense That It Belongs To Its Readers, But It Also Suggests The Name Of Others, And One Begets The Desire Of The Other.

How Quick The Old Woe Follows A Little Bliss!

Often On Earth The Gentlest Heart Is Fain To Feed And Banquet On Another's Woe.

Alack Our Life, So Beautiful To See, With How Much Ease Life Losest, In A Day, What Many Years With Pain And Toil Amassed!

Wanting Is Not Enough, Long And You Attain It.

To Be Able To Say How Much Love, Is Love But Little.

Gold, Silver, Jewels, Purple Garments, Houses Built Of Marble, Groomed Estates, Pious Paintings, Caparisoned Steeds, And Other Things Of This Kind Offer A Mutable And Superficial Pleasure; Books Give Delight To The Very Marrow Of One's Bones. They Speak To Us, Consult With Us, And Join With Us In A Living And Intense Intimacy.

A Good Death Does Honour To A Whole Life.

I Know And Love The Good, Yet, Ah! The Worst Pursue.

In My Younger Days I Struggled Constantly With An Overwhelming But Pure Love Affair - My Only One, And I Would Have Struggled With It Longer Had Not Premature Death, Bitter But Salutary For Me, Extinguished The Cooling Flames. I Certainly Wish I Could Say That I Have Always Been Entirely Free From Desires Of The Flesh, But I Would Be Lying If I Did.

It Is More Honorable To Be Raised To A Throne Than To Be Born To One. Fortune Bestows The One, Merit Obtains The Other.

I Saw The Tracks Of Angels In The Earth: The Beauty Of Heaven Walking By Itself On The World.

Books Come At My Call And Return When I Desire Them; They Are Never Out Of Humor And They Answer All My Questions With Readiness. Some Present In Review Before Me The Events Of Past Ages; Others Reveal To Me The Secrets Of Nature. These Teach Me How To Live, And Those How To Die; These Dispel My Melancholy By Their Mirth, And Amuse Me By Their Sallies Of Wit. Some There Are Who Prepare My Soul To Suffer Everything, To Desire Nothing, And To Become Thoroughly Acquainted With Itself. In A Word, They Open The Door To All The Arts And Sciences.

How Fortune Brings To Earth The Over-sure!

There Is No Lighter Burden, Nor More Agreeable, Than A Pen.

Those Spacious Regions Where Our Fancies Roam, Pain'd By The Past, Expecting Ills To Come, In Some Dread Moment, By The Fates Assign'd, Shall Pass Away, Nor Leave A Rack Behind; And Time's Revolving Wheels Shall Lose At Last The Speed That Spins The Future And The Past: And, Sovereign Of An Undisputed Throne, Awful Eternity Shall Reign Alone.

Events Appear Sad, Pleasant, Or Painful, Not Because They Are So In Reality, But Because We Believe Them To Be So And The Light In Which We Look At Them Depends Upon Our Own Judgment.

Suspicion Is The Cancer Of Friendship.

Cancer Survivor

I Have Friends Whose Society Is Delightful To Me; They Are Persons Of All Countries And Of All Ages; Distinguished In War, In Council, And In Letters; Easy To Live With, Always At My Command.

There Is No Lighter Burden, Nor More Agreeable, Than A Pen. Other Pleasures Fail Us Or Wound Us While They Charm, But The Pen We Take Up Rejoicing And Lay Down With Satisfaction, For It Has The Power To Advantage Not Only Its Lord And Master, But Many Others As Well, Even Though They Be Far Away - Sometimes, Indeed, Though They Be Not Born For Thousands Of Years To Come.

For Style Beyond The Genius Never Dares.

Five Enemies Of Peace Inhabit With Us - Avarice, Ambition, Envy, Anger, And Pride; If These Were To Be Banished, We Should Infallibly Enjoy Perpetual Peace.

Do You Suppose There Is Any Living Man So Unreasonable That If He Found Himself Stricken With A Dangerous Ailment He Would Not Anxiously Desire To Regain The Blessing Of Health?

It Is Better To Will The Good Than To Know The Truth.

Books Have Led Some To Learning And Others To Madness.

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

Death Is A Sleep That Ends Our Dreaming. Oh, That We May Be Allowed To Wake Before Death Wakes Us.

Each Famous Author Of Antiquity Whom I Recover Places A New Offence And Another Cause Of Dishonor To The Charge Of Earlier Generations, Who, Not Satisfied With Their Own Disgraceful Barrenness, Permitted The Fruit Of Other Minds, And The Writings That Their Ancestors Had Produced By Toil And Application, To Perish Through Insufferable Neglect. Although They Had Nothing Of Their Own To Hand Down To Those Who Were To Come After, They Robbed Posterity Of Its Ancestral Heritage.

Continued Work And Application Form My Soul's Nourishment. So Soon As I Commenced To Rest And Relax I Should Cease To Live.

An Equal Doom Clipp'd Time's Blest Wings Of Peace.

Love Is The Crowning Grace Of Humanity.

Man Has Not A Greater Enemy Than Himself.

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

I Have Taken Pride In Others, Never In Myself.

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

To Begin With Myself, Then, The Utterances Of Men Concerning Me Will Differ Widely, Since In Passing Judgment Almost Every One Is Influenced Not So Much By Truth As By Preference, And Good And Evil Report Alike Know No Bounds.

My Flowery And Green Age Was Passing Away, And I Feeling A Chill In The Fires Had Been Wasting My Heart, For I Was Drawing Near The Hillside Above The Grave.

Often Have I Wondered With Much Curiosity As To Our Coming Into This World And What Will Follow Our Departure.

And Tears Are Heard Within The Harp I Touch.

And Men Go About To Wonder At The Heights Of The Mountains, And The Mighty Waves Of The Sea, And The Wide Sweep Of Rivers, And The Circuit Of The Ocean, And The Revolution Of The Stars, But Themselves They Consider Not.

I Rejoiced In My Progress, Mourned My Weaknesses, And Commiserated The Universal Instability Of Human Conduct.

For Though I Am A Body Of This Earth, My Firm Desire Is Born From The Stars.

I Desire That Death Find Me Ready And Writing, Or If It Please Christ, Praying And Intears.

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