WORDS OF WISDOM
'T was grief no more, or grief and rage were one within her soul; at last 't was rage alone.
'The last word' is the most dangerous of infernal machines; and husband and wife should no more fight to get it than they would struggle for the possession of a lighted bombshell.
'The Prophet's words were true;
The mouth of Ali is the golden door
When his friends to Ali bore
These words, he smiled and said: 'And should they ask
The same until my dying day, the task
Were easy; for the stream from Wisdom's well,
Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.'
'The sublime,' says Longinus, 'is often nothing but the echo or image of magnanimity'; and where this quality appears in any one, even though a syllable be not uttered, it excites our applause and admiration.
'There is no book so bad,' said the bachelor, 'but something good may be found in it.'
'There is no difficulty,' says the steward of Molière's miser, 'in giving a fine dinner with plenty of money; the really great cook is he who can set out a banquet with no money at all.
'There is nothing so terrible as activity without insight,' says Goethe. 'I would open every one of Argus' hundred eyes before I used one of Briareus' hundred hands,' says Lord Bacon. 'Look before you leap,' says John Smith, all over the world.
'Thy royal will be done - 'tis just,'
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;
'Since, my last moments to assuage,
Your majesty's humane decree
Has deigned to leave the choice to me,
I'll die, so please you, of old age.'
'Time restores all things.' Wrong! Time restores many things, but eternity alone restores all.
'Tis a history
Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale -
Which children, open-ey'd and mouth'd devour;
And thus as garrulous ignorance relates,
We learn it and believe.
'Tis a kind of good deed to say well,
And yet words are no deeds.
'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try, try again.
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try, try again.
William Edward Hickson, Try and try again
'Tis a meaner part of sense to find a fault than taste an excellence.
'Tis a monster begot upon itself, born on itself.
'Tis a principle of war that when you can use the lightning, 'tis better than cannon.
'Tis a question whether adversity or prosperity makes the most poets.
'Tis a stern and a startling thing to think
How often mortality stands on the brink
Of its grave without any misgiving;
And yet in this slippery world of strife,
In the stir of human bustle so rife,
There are daily sounds to tell us that Life
Is dying, and Death is living!
'Tis a stinger.
'Tis all in vain, this rage that tears thy bosom!
Like a bird that flutters in her cage,
Thou beat'st thyself to death.
'Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery's the food of fools,
Yet now and then you men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.
'Tis an old tale, and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne'er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betray'd for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me!
'Tis as cheap sitting as standing.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
'Tis beauty, that doth oft make women proud;
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'Tis virtue, that doth make them most admired;
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'Tis government, that makes them seem divine.
'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on.
Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron)
'Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content,
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
'Tis better using France than trusting France;
Let us be back'd with God, and with the seas,
Which He hath given for fence impregnable,
And with their helps only defend ourselves;
In them, and in ourselves, our safety lies.
'Tis but a base ignoble mind that mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
'Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine;
And, after one hour more, 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy, -
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.