Quotes
Quotes about Wit
Sharp's the word with her.
So mourn'd the dame of Ephesus her love,
And thus the soldier arm'd with resolution
Told his soft tale, and was a thriving wooer.
Off with his head! so much for Buckingham!
With clink of hammers closing rivets up.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman,--scorned, slighted, dismissed without a parting pang.
Within one of her.
The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome.
Were you with these, my prince, you 'd soon forget
The pale, unripened beauties of the north.
It must be so,--Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'T is the divinity that stirs within us;
'T is Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
I 'm weary of conjectures,--this must end 'em.
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me:
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit and mirth and spleen about thee,
There is no living with thee, nor without thee.
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye.
Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber!
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measured by my soul:
The mind's the standard of the man.
Remote from man, with God he passed the days;
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
"I 've lost a day!"--the prince who nobly cried,
Had been an emperor without his crown.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
Be wise with speed;
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.
For her own breakfast she 'll project a scheme,
Nor take her tea without a stratagem.
Accept a miracle instead of wit,--
See two dull lines with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue.
And friend received with thumps upon the back.
Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day:
Time's noblest offspring is the last.
