Quotes
Quotes about Tea
We must learn to tailor our concepts to fit reality, instead of trying to stuff reality into our concepts.
Reform is born of need, not pity. No vital movement of the people has worked down, for good or evil; fermented, instead, carried up the heaving, cloggy mass.
Don't let the negativity given to you by the world disempower you. Instead give to yourself that which empowers you.
Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.
The Churches must learn humility as well as teach it.
Life is a tightrope with God at the end. If we walk with our eyes down, looking at what is happening right now in our lives, we are likely to waver and fall. However, if we focus at the end of the rope, where God and Heaven await us, we can see past all of the petty troubles this present life and walk more steadily. We may sometimes still stumble, but if we get back up and train our eyes on God once again, He will guide us to the end.
If a man would follow, today, the teachings of the Old Testament, he would be a criminal. If he would follow strictly the teachings of the New, he would be insane.
If a man would follow, today, the teachings of the Old Testament, he would be a criminal. If he would follow the teachings of the new, he would be insane.
Fear prophets and those prepared to die for the truth, for as a rule they make many others die with them, often before them, at times instead of them.
If someone were to prove to meâright this minuteâthat God, in all his luminousness, exists, it wouldn't change a single aspect of my behavior.
Once conform, once do what others do because they do it, and a kind of lethargy steals over all the finer senses of the soul.
Cruel Remorse! where Youth and Pleasure sport, And thoughtless Folly keeps her court,-- Crouching 'midst rosy bowers thou lurk'st unseen Slumbering the festal hours away, While Youth disports in that enchanting scene; Till on some fated day Thou with a tiger-spring dost leap upon thy prey, And tear his helpless breast, o'erwhelmed with wild dismay.
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows; If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy, It is the poison tree, that pierced to the inmost, Weeps only tears of poison.
That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby House; Where--after I have solemnly interred At Chertsey monast'ry with noble king-- And wet his grave with my repentant tears-- I will with all expedient duty see you.
Take care not to begin anything of which you may repent. [Lat., Cave ne quidquam incipias, quod post poeniteat.]
Iteration, like friction, is likely to generate heat instead of progress.
Let no one honour me with tears, or bury me with lamentation. Why? Because I fly hither and thither, living in the mouths of me. [Lat., Nemo me lacrymis decoret, nec funera fletu. Faxit cur? Volito vivu' per ora virum.]
If you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you'd best teach it to dance.
Every human being has a work to carry on within, duties to perform abroad, influence to exert, which are peculiarly his, and which no conscience but his own can teach.
Who remembers when we used to rest on Sunday instead of Monday?
No more tears now; I will think about revenge.
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
On fair Britania's isle, bright bird, A legend strange is told of thee,-- 'Tis said thy blithesome song was hushed While Christ toiled up Mount Calvary, Bowed 'neath the sins of all mankind; And humbled to the very dust By the vile cross, while viler men Mocked with a crown of thorns the Just. Pierced by our sorrows, and weighed down By our transgressions,--faint and weak, Crushed by an angry Judge's frown, And agonies no word can speak,-- 'Twas then, dear bird, the legend says That thou, from out His crown, didst tear The thorns, to lighten the distress And ease the pain that he must bear, While pendant from thy tiny beak The gory points thy bosom pressed, And crimsoned with thy Saviour's blood The sober brownness of thy breast! Since which proud hour for thee and thine. As an especial sign of grace God pours like sacramental wine Red signs of favor o'er thy race!
You say that love is nonsense....I tell you it is no such thing. For weeks and months it is a steady physical pain, an ache about the heart, never leaving one, by night or by day; a long strain on one's nerves like toothache or rheumatism, not intolerable at any one instant, but exhausting by its steady drain on the strength.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
