The tree that bears no fruit deserves no name; the man of wisdom is the man of years.
They talk of morals, O, thou bleeding lamb! the grand morality is love to thee!
Time elaborately thrown away.
To waft a feather or to drown a fly.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile-- the mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry.
What so foolish as the chase of fame? How vain the prize! how impotent our aim! For what are men who grasp at praise sublime, but bubbles on the rapid stream of time, that rise and fall, that swell, and are no more, born and forgot, ten thousand in an hour.
Where is the dust that has not been alive? - The spade and the plough disturb our ancestors. - From human mold we reap our daily bread.
Will no superior genius snatch the quill, and save me on the brink from writing ill?
Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, brave men would act though scandal would ensue.
The world is all title-page without contents.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, produce their debt instead of their discharge.
Time flies, death urges, knells call, Heaven invites, Hell threatens.
To-day is yesterday returned; returned full-powered to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn, and reinstate us on the rock of peace: let it not share its predecessor's fate, nor like its elder sisters die a fool.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, the next amusement mortgages our fields.
What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, and men talk only to conceal the mind.
Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! Wit abounds.
Your learning, like the lunar beam, affords Light, but not heat; it leaves you undevout, Frozen at heart, while speculation shines.
The world's all title-page; there's no contents; the world's all face; the man who shows his heart is hooted for his nudities, and scorn'd.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; sands make the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles, life. Your care to trifles give, else you may die ere you have learned to live.
Time is eternity; pregnant with all eternity can give; pregnant will all that makes archangels smile. Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth a power ethereal, only not adorn'd.
Tomorrow is a satire on today, and shows its weakness.
We nothing know, but what is marvelous; Yet what is marvelous, we can't believe.
What we ardently wish we soon believe.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, when consternation turns the good man pale?