Quotes

Oaths are but words, and words but wind.

Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

I have given suck, and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. “By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

He that imposes an oath makes it, Not he that for convenience takes it; Then how can any man be said To break an oath he never made?

They have made worms’ meat of me.

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

All those who try to go it sole alone, Too proud to be beholden for relief, Are absolutely sure to come to grief.

As the ancients Say wisely, have a care o’ th’ main chance, And look before you ere you leap; For as you sow, ye are like to reap.

O! I am Fortune’s fool.

Macbeth: If we should fail— Lady Macbeth: We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time.

The guests are met, the feast is set: May’st hear the merry din.

What makes all doctrines plain and clear? About two hundred pounds a year. And that which was proved true before, Prove false again? Two hundred more.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus’ lodging.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul.

It asks a little of us here. It asks of us a certain height, So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may take something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.

He that complies against his will Is of his own opinion still.

Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Memory, the warder of the brain.

I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Press close bare-bosom’d night—press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding Guest stood still, And listens like a three years’ child: The Mariner hath his will.

Neither have the hearts to stay, Nor wit enough to run away.

Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit.

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest. Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee And I’ll forgive Thy great big one on me.