Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.
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Too much rest is rust.
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O many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken
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The revolution will not be televised!
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But with morning cool repentance came.
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Then, wearied by the uncertainty and difficulties with which each scheme appeared to be attended, he bent up his mind to the strong effort of shaking off his love, like dew-drops from the lion's mane, and resuming those studies and that career of life which his unrequited affection had so long and so fruitlessly interrupted. In this last resolution he endeavoured to fortify himself by every argument which pride, as well as reason, could suggest.
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Oh, the tangled webs we weave When we practice to deceive.
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Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
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Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
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He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit.
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We shall never learn to feel and respect our real calling and destiny, unless we have taught ourselves to consider everything as moonshine, compared with the education of the heart.
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Oh, what tangled webs we weave, When we first practice to deceive.
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To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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The will to do, the soul to dare.
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One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honor or observation.
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Look back, and smile on perils past.
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Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive
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And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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Credit is like a looking-glass, which when once sullied by a breath, may be wiped clear again; but if once cracked can never be repaired.
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All men who have turned out worth anything have had the chief hand in their own education.
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We have kept faith with the majority of the side that underperformed in Dublin and told them to go out there and put things right.
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Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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Death -- the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening.
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One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.
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I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
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You make the world a better place by making yourself a better person.
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To all, to each, a fair good night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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