Virtues neglected then, adored become, And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.
Oh, Conscience! Conscience! man's most faithful friend, Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend; But if he will thy friendly checks forego, Thou art, oh! woe for me, his deadliest foe!
Old Peter Grimes made fishing his employ; His wife he cabined with him and his boy, And seemed that life laborious to enjoy.
All green was anished sae of pine and yew, That still displayed their melancholy hue; Sae the green holly with its berries red, And the green moss that o'er the grael spread.
But jest apart--what virtue canst thou trace In that broad trim that hides thy sober face? Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? Then for thine accent--what in sound can be So void of grace as dull monotony?
Tis easiest dealing with the firmest mind-- More just when it resists, and, when it yields, more kind.
An infatuated man is not only foolish, but wild.
There is no mind so weak and powerless as not to have its inclinations, and none so guarded as to be without its prepossessions.
Fortunes are made, if I the facts may state-- Though poor myself, I know the fortunate: First, there's a knowledge of the way from whence Good fortune comes--and this is sterling sense: Then perseverance, never to decline The chase of riches till the prey is thine; And firmness never to be drawn away By any passion from that noble prey-- By love, ambition, study, travel, fame, Or the vain hope that lives upon a name.
When winter stern, his gloomy front uprears, A sable void the barren earth appears; The meads no more their former verdure boast, Fast-bound their streams, and all their beauty lost; The herds, the flocks, in icy garments mourn, and wildly murmur for the Spring's return; From snow-topp'd hills the whirlwinds keenly blow, Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below, Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies.
Experience finds few of the scenes that lively hope designs.
Temp'rate in every place--abroad, at home, Thence will applause, and hence will profit come; And health from either--he in time prepares For sickness, age, and their attendant cares.
Dreams are like portraits; and we find they please because they are confessed resemblances.
To every class we have a school assign'd, Rules for all ranks, and food for every mind: Yet one there is, that small regard to rule Or study pays, and still is deem'd a school; That, where a deaf, poor, patient widow sits, And awes some thirty infants as she knits; Infants of humble, busy wives, who pay Some trifling price for freedom through the day. At this good matron's hut the children meet, Who thus becomes the mother of the street.
Fears of sinning let in thoughts of sin.
Beauties, when disposed to sleep, Should from the eye of keen inspector keep: The lovely nymph who would her swain surprise, May close her mouth, but not conceal her eyes; Sleep from the fairest face some beauty takes, And all the homely features homelier makes.
A club there is of smokers--dare you come To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room? When, midnight past, the very candles seem Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam; When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise, And prosing topers rub their winking eyes.
Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil! Who from destruction save us; who from spoil Protect the sons of peace, who traffic or who toil; Would I could duly praise you, that each deed Your foe's might honor, and your friends might read.
Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind! Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring; But Man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend; 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
Say, ye oppress'd by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, To name the nameless ever-new disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, Which real pain and that alone can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie, Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath, Where all that's wretched paves the way for death?
Books cannot always please, however good; Minds are not ever craving for their food.
Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality.
And took for truth the test of ridicule.
In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
We cannot heal the throbbing heart till we discern the wounds within.
Follow AzQuotes on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. Every day we present the best quotes! Improve yourself, find your inspiration, share with friends
or simply: