Quotes
Quotes about Age
A man is known by the company that keeps him on after retirement age.
Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
I am the signet which marks the page where the revolution has been stopped; but when I die it will turn the page and resume its course. [Fr., Je suis le signet qui marque la page ou la revolution s'est arretee; mais quand je serai mort, elle tournera le feuillet et reprendra sa marche.]
That passage is what I call the sublime dashed to pieces by cutting too close with the fiery four-in-hand round the corner of nonsense.
'Twas the saying of an ancient sage that humour was the only test of gravity, and gravity of humour. For a subject which would not bear raillery was suspicious; and a jest which would not bear a serious examination was certainly false wit. - Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper, 7th Earl of Shaftesbury,
Ridicule is the language of the devil.
It is the privilege of posterity to set matters right between those antagonists who, by their rivalry for greatness, divided a whole age.
Romances paint at full length people's wooings, But only give a bust of marriages: For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss. Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?
Love has features which pierce all hearts, he wears a bandage which conceals the faults of those beloved. He has wings, he comes quickly and flies away the same.
I am in Rome! Oft as the morning ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind, a thousand images; And I spring up as girt to run a race!
The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp'rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting in many ways.
And he saw a chariot with a couple of horsemen, a chariot of asses, and a chariot of camels; and he hearkened diligently with much heed: And he cried, A lion: My lord, I stand continually upon the watchtower in the daytime, and I am set in my ward whole nights: And, behold, here cometh a chariot of men, with a couple of horsemen. And he answered and said, Babylon is fallen, is fallen; and all the graven images of her gods he hath broken unto the ground.
The ruins of himself! now worn away With age, yet still majestic in decay.
The next Augustan age will dawn on the other side of the Atlantic. There will, perhaps, be a Thucydides at Boston, a Xenophon at New York, in time a Vergil at Mexico, and a Newton at Peru. At last some curious traveller from Lima will visit England, and give a description of the ruins of St. Paul's, like the editions of Balbec and Palmyra.
Where now is Britain? . . . . Even as the savage sits upon the stone That marks were stood her capitols, and hears The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks From the dismaying solitude.
Gently on tiptoe Sunday creeps, Cheerfully from the stars he peeps, Mortals are all asleep below, None in the village hears him go; E'en chanticleer keeps very still, For Sunday whispered, 'twas his will.
Must then a Christ perish in torment in every age to save those that have no imagination?
Satire is tragedy plus time. You give it enough time, the public, the reviewers will allow you to satirize it. Which is rather ridiculous, when you think about it.
Satire must not be a kind of superfluous ill will, but ill will from a higher point of view. Ridiculous man, divine God. Or else, hatred against the bogged-down vileness of average man as against the possible heights that humanity might attain.
Sarcasm is the language of the devil, for which reason I have long since as good as renounced it.
Satire is tragedy plus time. You give it enough time, the public, the reviewers will allow you to satirize it. Which is rather ridiculous, when you think about it.
Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen. Thine is an oyster knife, that hacks and hews; The rage but not the talent to abuse.
O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?
The scientific theory I like the best is that the rings of Saturn are composed entirely of lost airline baggage.
The great tragedy of scienceâ the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact.
