Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
'Tis folly to be wise.
A fav'rite has no friend!
We frolic while 'tis May.
Ah, tell them they are men!
Rich with the spoils of time.
Hell is full of good intentions.
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
The still small voice of gratitude.
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.
Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.
And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?
Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.
To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.
Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.