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T Quotes

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All T Quotes

“Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death, The noise was high. Ha! No more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? Were ’t good? I think she stirs again—No. What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife— My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife. Oh, insupportable! Oh, heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that th' affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration.”

“Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault That into practice they can ne'er be brought.”

“Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, All soft and still and fair; The solemn hour of midnight Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere, But most where trees are sending Their breezy boughs on high, Or stooping low are lending A shelter from the sky. And there in those wild bowers A lovely form is laid; Green grass and dew-steeped flowers Wave gently round her head.”

“Tis my humor as much to regard the form as the substance, and the advocate as much as the cause, as Alcibiades ordered we should: and every day pass away my time in reading authors without any consideration of their learning; their manner is what I look after, not their subject. And just so do I hunt after the conversation of any eminent wit, not that he may teach me, but that I may know him, and that knowing him, if I think him worthy of imitation, I may imitate him.”

“Tis no extravagant arithmetic to say, that for every ten jokes, thou hast got an hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung to death by them, thou wilt never be convinced it is so.”

“Tis not the greatest singer Who tries the loftiest themes, He is the true joy bringer, Who tells his simplest dreams. He is the greatest poet, Who will renounce all art, And take his heart and show it To every other heart; Who writes no learned riddle, But sings his simplest rune, Takes his heart strings for a fiddle, And plays his easiest tune ~ Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911) [From Back Country Poems, 1892]”