Take not away the life you cannot give; For all things have an equal right to live, Kill noxious creatures where 'tis sin to save; This only just prerogative we have; But nourish life with vegetable food, And shun the sacrilegious taste of blood. Forbear, O mortals, To spoil your bodies with such impious food! There is corn for you, apples, whose weight bears down The bending branches; there are grapes that swell On the vines, and pleasant herbs, and greens Made mellow and soft with cooking; there is milk And clover-honey. Earth is generous With her provision, and her sustenance Is very kind; she offers, for your tables, Food that requires no bloodshed and no slaughter.
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A man is sorry to be honest for nothing.
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Every lover is a soldier.
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In our leisure we reveal what kind of people we are.
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The spirited horse, which will try to win the race of its own accord, will run even faster if encouraged.
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Minds that are ill at ease are agitated by both hope and fear.
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Like fragile ice anger passes away in time.
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It is annoying to be honest to no purpose.
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Wine gives courage and makes men more apt for passion.
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Nowadays nothing but money counts: a fortune brings honors, friendships; the poor man everywhere lies low.
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The sharp thorn often produces delicate roses.
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Man's last day must ever be awaited and none to be counted happy until his death, until his last funeral rites are paid.
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Judgement of beauty can err, what with the wine and the dark.
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Happy is the man who has broken the chains which hurt the mind, and has given up worrying once and for all.
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The burden which is well borne becomes light.
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Everyone's a millionaire where promises are concerned.
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Socrates called beauty a short-lived tyranny; Plato, a privilege of nature; Theophrastus, a silent cheat; Theocritus, a delightful prejudice; Carneades, a solitary kingdom; Aristotle, that it was better than all the letters of recommendation in the world; Homer, that it was a glorious gift of nature; and Ovid, that it was favor bestowed by the gods.
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The bold adventurer succeeds the best.
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Whether you call my heart affectionate, or you call it womanish: I confess, that to my misfortune, it is soft.
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Oh, Ox, how great are yours desserts! A being without deceit, harmless, simple, willing for work! Ungrateful and unworthy of the fruits of the earth, man kills his own farm helper with the axe, that toil-worn neck that had so often renewed for him the face of the hard earth; so many harvests given!
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Time is the devourer of all things.
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Death is less bitter punishment than death's delay.
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Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick! Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilette --throw Roderick Random into the closet --put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man; thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa! cram Ovid behind the bolster; there --put The Man of Feeling into your pocket. Now for them.
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Make the workmanship surpass the materials.
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To feel our ills is one thing, but to cure them is another.
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Daring is not safe against daring men.
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Why should I go into details, we have nothing that is not perishable except what our hearts and our intellects endows us with.
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A new idea is delicate. It can be killed by a sneer or a yawn; it can be stabbed to death by a quip and worried to death by a frown on the right man's brow.
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The prayers of cowards fortune spurns.
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What is now reason was formerly impulse or instinct.
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