Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace; And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; but time and thunder pay respect to bays.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight; Admiring, in the gloomy shade, Those little drops of light.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.