Quotes to inspire and reflect

When I set out for Lyonnesse, A hundred miles away, The rime was on the spray, And starlight lit my lonesomeness.

These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.

The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries. And every joke that’s possible has long ago been made.

When everyone is somebodee, Then no one’s anybody!

Of that there is no manner of doubt— No probable, possible shadow of doubt— No possible doubt whatever.

The gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.

No soldier in that gallant band Hid half as well as he did. He lay concealed throughout the war, And so preserved his gore, O!

The Duke of Plaza Toro!

He led his regiment from behind— He found it less exciting.

It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a lady.

I have a song to sing, O! Sing me your song, O!

When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black dogs bay at the moon, Then is the specters’ holiday—then is the ghosts’ high noon!

On a tree by a river a little tomtit Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow!’ “Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried, “Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?” With a shake of his poor little head he replied, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la, Have nothing to do with the case.

I seized him by his little pig-tail, And on his knees fell he, As he squirmed and struggled, And gurgled and guggled, I drew my snickersnee!

And elliptical billiard balls.

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time— To let the punishment fit the crime. 3

A source of innocent merriment!

Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We’re very wide awake, The moon and I!

Here’s a pretty state of things! Here’s a pretty how-de-do!

Three little maids from school are we, Pert as a schoolgirl well can be, Filled to the brim with girlish glee.

Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own.

I can’t help it. I was born sneering.

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found, I’ve got a little list—I’ve got a little list. Of society offenders who might well be underground, And who never would be missed—who never would be missed.

To sit in solemn silence in a dull dark dock, In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock, Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock, From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.

A wandering minstrel I— And dreamy lullaby!

I love my fellow creatures—I do all the good I can— Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why!

Faint heart never won fair lady! Nothing venture, nothing win— Blood is thick, but water’s thin— In for a penny, in for a pound 2 — It’s Love that makes the world go round!

For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich— Which is something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage.

When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in, without impropriety.

The House of Peers, throughout the war, Did nothing in particular,

Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!

When I went to the Bar as a very young man (Said I to myself, said I).

I often think it’s comical How nature always does contrive That every boy and every gal, That’s born into the world alive, Is either a little Liberal, Or else a little Conservative!

For I’m not so old, and not so plain, And I’m quite prepared to marry again.

Pretty young wards in Chancery.

The Law is the true embodiment Of everything that’s excellent. It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, my Lords, embody the Law.

Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes! Bow, bow, ye tradesmen, bow, ye masses.

I see no objection to stoutness, in moderation.

None shall part us from each other, One in life and death are we: All in all to one another— I to thee and thou to me! Thou the tree and I the flower— Thou the idol; I the throng— Thou the day and I the hour— Thou the singer; I the song!

Francesca da Rimini, miminy, piminy, Je-ne-sais-quoi young man!

A greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery, Foot-in-the-grave young man!

Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me? (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow, willow, waly!)

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand. And everyone will say, As you walk your flowery way, “If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”

You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind, The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”