Doubt thou the stars are fire Doubt thou the sun doth moveDoubt truth to be a liar But never doubt I love
The secrets of this earth are not for all men to see, but only for those who will seek them. (Chapter 3, paragraph 8)
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,Love can transpose to form and dignity.Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste;Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
These violent delights have violent endsAnd in their triumph die, like fire and powder,Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honeyIs loathsome in his own deliciousnessAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
I understood that centuries of chains and lashes will not kill the spirit of man nor the sense of truth within him. (Chapter 12, paragraph 2)
Ay me! for aught that ever I could read,could ever hear by tale or history,the course of true love never did run smooth.
To be free, a man must be free of his brothers. That is freedom. This and nothing else. (Chapter 12, paragraph 11)
Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.
Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive.
I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.
When I get out of here, if I’m ever able to set this down, in any form, even in the form of one voice to another, it will be a reconstruction then too, at yet another remove. It’s impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because what you say can never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean this or that, too many shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavors, in the air or on the tongue, half-colors, too many. But
The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones;
I stand here on the summit of the mountain. I lift my head and I spread my arms. This, my body and spirit, this is the end of the quest. I wished to know the meaning of things. I am the meaning. I wished to find a warrant for being. I need no warrant for being, and no word of sanction upon my being. I am the warrant and the sanction.It is my eyes which see, and the sight of my eyes grants beauty to the earth. It is my ears which hear, and the hearing of my ears gives its song to the world. It is my mind which thinks, and the judgment of my mind is the only searchlight that can find the truth. It is my will which chooses, and the choice of my will is the only edict I must respect.Many words have been granted me, and some are wise, and some are false, but only three are holy: "I will it! (Chapter 11, paragraph 4)
Some day, when times improve, says Aunt Lydia, no one will have to be an Econowife. The
My happiness is not the means to any end. It is the end. It is its own goal. It is its own purpose.Neither am I the means to any ends others may wish to accomplish. I am not a tool for their use. I am not a servant of their needs. I am not a bandage for their wounds. I am not a sacrifice of their altars. (Chapter 11, paragraph 8)
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. [Act 1 Sc. 2]
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other.