Horace

Believe that each day that shines on you is your last.

What do sad complaints avail if the offense is not cut down by punishment.

I teach that all men are mad.

I shall strike the stars with my unlifted head.

He will always be a slave who does not know how to live upon a little.

Patience makes lighter What sorrow may not heal.

An apology for the devil: it must be remembered that we have heard one side of the case. God has written all the books.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it.

His heart was as great as the world, but there was no room in it to hold the memory of a wrong.

Your playing small does not serve the world. Who are you not to be great?

Virtue is like a rich stone, best plain set.

There is nothing which at once affects a man so much and so little as his own death.

He may justly be numbered among the benefactors of mankind, who contracts the great rules of life into short sentences, that may early be impressed on the memory, and taught by frequent recollection to occur habitually to the mind.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.

Don’t call a woman a bitch. Call her an ass-hole. It still gets your point across and it’s not sexist.

All murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.

We must always think about things, and we must think about things as they are, not as they are said to be.

Really great people make you feel that you, too, can become great.

Wherever there is power there is age.

Arguments of convenience lack integrity and inevitably trip you up.

What a wee little part of a person’s life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, not those of other things, are his history. These are his life, and they are not written. Everyday would make a whole book of 80,000 words – 365 books a year. Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man – the biography of the man himself cannot be written.