Quotes
Quotes about Wit
A successful man is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks others have thrown at him.
I dread success. To have succeeded is to have finished one's business on earth, like the male spider, who is killed by the female the moment he has succeeded in his courtship. I like a state of continual becoming, with a goal in front and not behind.
If A equal success, then the formula is A equals X plus Y and Z, with X being work, Y play, and Z keeping your mouth shut.
The most important single ingredient in the formula of success is knowing how to get along with people.
Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.
I've had enough success for two lifetimes, my success is talent put together with hard work and luck.
I have trodden the winepress alone; and of the people there was none with me: for I will tread them in mine anger, and trample them in my fury; and their blood shall be sprinkled upon my garments, and I will stain all my raiment.
They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!
What is deservedly suffered must be borne with calmness, but when the pain is unmerited, the grief is resistless. [Lat., Leniter ex merito quidquid patiare ferendum est, Quae venit indigne poena dolenda venit.]
If you strike the goads with your fists, your hands suffer most. [Lat., Si stimulos pugnis caedis manibus plus dolet.]
Oh, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer!
He could afford to suffer With those whom he saw suffer.
Suffering is the ancient law of love; there is not quest without pain; there is no lover who is not also a martyr.
Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through greatness of mind.
Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.
When Fannius from his foe did fly Himself with his own hands he slew; Who e'er a greater madness knew? Life to destroy for fear to die.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?
O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, "Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?"
Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
That beautiful season . . . the Summer of All-Saints! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
Such words fall to often on our cold and careless ears with the triteness of long familiarity; but to Octavia . . . they seemed to be written in sunbeams.
Failing yet gracious, Slow pacing, soon homing, A patriarch that strolls Through the tents of his children, The sun as he journeys His round on the lower Ascents of the blue, Washes the roofs And the hillsides with clarity.
The great duties of life are written with a sunbeam.
