Quotes to inspire and reflect

’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction. 7

That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so.”

The English winter—ending in July, To recommence in August.

Society is now one polish’d horde, Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff’d out by an article.

And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but The truth in masquerade.

Not so Leonidas and Washington, Whose every battlefield is holy ground, Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.

When Bishop Berkeley said “there was no matter,” And proved it—’twas no matter what he said.

A lady of “a certain age,” which means Certainly aged.

The women pardon’d all except her face.

And put himself upon his good behavior.

There’s not a sea the passenger e’er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’Tis that I may not weep.

And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.

Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae.

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall.

The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free.

Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 6 Where burning Sappho loved and sung.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?

In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others, all she loves is love.

Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage—and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all’s over.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication.

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

There’s nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion.

What is the end of fame? ’tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor.

Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’Tis woman’s whole existence.

Sweet is revenge—especially to women.

Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure.

A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne’er consent”—consented.

’Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home; ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate’s sultry.

But—Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual, Inform us truly, have they not henpeck’d you all?

Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.

[Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge:] I wish he would explain his explanation.

So we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we’ll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here’s a double health to thee! 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.

Though the day of my destiny’s over, And the star of my fate hath declined.

I had a dream which was not all a dream.

There be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me.

A light broke in upon my brain— It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard.

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art.

The glory and the nothing of a name.