So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.

Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.

Self-defense is Nature's eldest law.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade; Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground.

When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.

Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.

Dead men tell no tales.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one.

Fortune befriends the bold.

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

This girl is magic. She's wild incantations. She's that spark that lit me back to life and I'm burning for her.

Even when you’d lost everything you thought there was to lose, somebody came along and gave you something for free.

Salmon. Salmon, salmon, salmon, salmon. I eat so much salmon at these weddings, twice a year I get this urge to swim upstream.

The reason there's a question mark on my front door is just in case I forget my address.

To be humble is to be teachable.

What I really believe is that there are no coincidences anymore.

Small steps work—grandiose goals don’t.

I carry groceries home on the tank of my motorcycle.

I can't give up. It's a rap thang. And I ain't goin back to the crack game.