Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.

Life is an incurable disease.

For the whole world, without a native home, Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.

Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.

A mighty pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss; But, of all pains, the greatest pain Is to love, but love in vain.

Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.

I would not fear nor wish my fate, but boldly say each night, to-morrow let my sun his beams display, or in clouds hide them; I have lived today.

Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.

As for being much known by sight, and pointed out, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies withal; whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor.

Rise in your mind and you will rise in your world.

Running is a big question mark that's there each and every day. It asks you, 'Are you going to be a wimp or are you going to be strong today?

The materials are mostly from living beings - living human beings. They need to be alive to extract the necessary materials.

This communist talk is so confusing

For the first time ever I was taking the family on the road. We stayed with my in-laws, which on life's list of experiences ranks right below sitting in a tub full of scissors.

The only limits we have are the limits we give ourselves.

Character isn't developed when we get what we want. Character is developed when we don't get what we want.

It is the dread of something happening, something unknown and dreadful, that makes us do anything to keep the flicker of talk from dying out.

The facts of life are to the biographer what the text of a novel is to the critic.

The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the sky.