Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Withers. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Withers Quotes And Sayings by 80 Authors including Lord Byron,Edmund Spenser,Susanna Kaysen,Tacitus,Khalil Gibran for you to enjoy and share.
No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.
Yet is there one more cursed than they all,
That canker-worm, that monster, jealousie,
Which eats the heart and feeds upon the gall,
Turning all love's delight to misery,
Through fear of losing his felicity.
Thus, our keepers. As for finders - well, we had to be our own finders.
The most detestable race of enemies are flatterers.
You, the strong, have I loved, though the marks of your iron hoofs are yet upon my flesh.
His foe was folly and his weapon wit.
207. He who walks in the company of fools suffers a long way; company with fools, as with an enemy, is always painful; company with the wise is pleasure, like meeting with kinsfolk.
Al the povere peple tho pescoddes fetten; Benes and baken apples thei broghte in hir lappe, Chibolles and chervelles and ripe chiries manye, And profrede Piers this present to plese with Hunger.
he says that the Men that have lately come over the Mountains are hardly better than Orcs.' 'That is true,' answered Sador; 'true at least of some of us. But the up-climbing is painful, and from high places it is easy to fall low.' At
Hallows, not Horcruxes.
Poor thieves in halters we behold;
And great thieves in their chains of gold.
For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde, Ay fleeth the tyme; it nyl no man abyde.
A miser is sometimes a grand personification of fear. He has a fine horror of poverty; and he is not content to keep want from the door, or at arm's length, but he places it, by heaping wealth upon wealth, at a sublime distance!
We sleepwalkers of the day! We artists! We who conceal naturalness! We who are moon- and God-struck! We untiring wanderers, silent as death, on heights that we see not as heights but as our plains, as our safety.
He that lies with the dogs, riseth with fleas.
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Gipsies, who every ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor
Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell,
Who can in hen-roost set a spell,
Prepar'd by arts, to them best known
To catch all feet except their own,
Who, as to fortune, can unlock it,
As easily as pick a pocket.
I wither slowly in thine arms; here at the quiet limit of the world, a white hair'd shadow roaming like a dream.
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n; But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
Inscriptions here of various Names I view'd,
The greater part by hostile time subdu'd;
Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,
And Poets once had promis'd they should last.
Whom the gods notice they destroy.
Frenzy, Heresie, and Jealovsie, seldome cured.
The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
We're the only ones left from those withered days. The last two leaves still clinging to the branch waiting to fall. Waiting for the wind to severe us into the sky.
Power wears out those who don't have it.
Nadir we, youth born, axe wielders, blood letters, victors still.
Death aims with fouler spiteAt fairer marks.
Death's the discarder.
Mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust.
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
This is a time for beasts, Jaime reflected, for lions and wolves and angry dogs, for ravens and carrion crows.
Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.
There is not one of us that would not be worse than kings, if so continually corrupted as they are with a sort of vermin called flatterers.
When strength is yoked with justice, where is a mightier pair than they?
Power for the King, Power for Neutralis.
But to this Orc-work such a life as we lead has brought us. Lawless and fruitless all our deeds have been, serving only ourselves, and feeding hate in our hearts.
In your walks about London you will sometimes see bent, haggard figures that look as if they had recently been caught in some powerful machinery. They are those fellows who got mixed up with Catsmeat when he was meaning well.
Beasts of like kind will spare those of kindred spots.
In life there are certain sores that, like a canker, gnaw at the soul in solitude and diminish it.
I like sayers of no better than I like sayers of yes.
The work for giants ... to serve well the guns!
You Starks are hard to kill,
The axe of intemperance has lopped off his green boughs and left him a withered trunk.
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
Powers Thai Be just
Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
The close contriuer of all harmes,
Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
Or shew the glory of our Art?
Witches, wolves, and moral friend There is horror that does not end War is waged and battles fought But have you stopped to count the cost? We are the ones backed by right We must strike with bold and might The cursed ones blamless be Warm them of the Hunters you see
Whose fingers string the stalactite-
Who counts the Wampum of the night
What is this word that broke through the fence of your teeth, Atreides?
You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those.
You're a formidable riddler and I'll not match words with ye
Good King Wenceslas tastes great; We might as well eat Stephen, When the brains lay round about, Toasted crisp and bleedin'. Brightly shown the moon that night, Though the virus cruel. When a poor man came in sight, He made fine undead fuel.
Death has white hounds.
There are no fools so troublesome as those that have wit.
Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.
Wakens the ferine strain.
E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower,
That Time upon her angel brow should set
His crooked autograph, and mar the jet
Of glossy locks. Lo! how her chaplet green,
The hoar frost and the canker worm destroy.
Decay's dull film obscures those matchless eyes.
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless
And it be well for a knowlessman that he should not be here, for he would be taken from this place and his gaskin slit, his moules shown to the four winds, his welchet torn asunder with many hooks and his figgin placed upon a spike (...)
We wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die:
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows;Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower.Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.
Time owed an alliance to the undying.
Deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.
No matter what we are, and what we sing, Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel
Who hastens a glutton choakes him.
Eros, again now, the loosener of limbs troubles me,
Bittersweet, sly, uncontrollable creature ... .
Our backs hut from gathering them: how hard they were to find among the concealing leaves, the frosted deceiving grass.
I, the infirm, find myself caring for the sorrows and fears of the well.
There is something in omens.
The wolfe eats oft of the sheep that have been warn'd.
We are a force to be reckoned with
Gods and Thunders!
Norman Mailer records in his recent essays and public appearances his perfecting of himself as a virile instrument of letters; he is perpetually in training, getting ready to launch himself from his own missile pad into a high, beautiful orbit; even his failures may yet be turned to successes.
High Magic's Aid)
Curs'd be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught Smiths (who before could only make The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Arts, in most cruel wise Man's left to epitomize!
Henry York, aka Whimpering Child, aka WC (hair sample included), is hereby identified as Enemy, Hazard, and Human Mishap to all faeren in all districts, in all ways, and in all worlds.
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
I've got two vices: cigarettes and taters.
For I make others say what I cannot say so well, ... I do not count my borrowings, but, weight them ... They are all, or very nearly all, from such famous and ancient names that they seem to identify themselves enough without me.
Wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad To some poor lonely elf; To ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way At's poorer nor(2) herself. Shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives, Kind, gentle-hearted sowl; I' charity her hands find wark, Shoo's good alike to all.
those ghouls who enter into a macabre dance with pot-bellied netas.
Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, / Conspired against our God with Lucifer, / And are for ever damned with Lucifer.
Wise men will apply their remedies to vices, not to names; to the causes of evil which are permanent, not to occasional organs by which they act, and the transitory modes in which they appear.
The miser is the man who starves himself and everybody else, in order to worship wealth in its dead form, as distinct from its living form.
Names have power.
Death has no wit
Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.
Eros the melter of limbs (now again) stirs me -
sweetbitter unmanageable creature who steals in
Here and there, a form stirred feebly, victim of war's sorcery, struggling against the enchantment of death.
One too like thee: tameles, and Swift, and proud.
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?
The bronze rider of Mnementh, Lord F'lar, will require quarters for himself. I, F'nor, brown rider, prefer to be lodged with the wingmen. We are, in number, twelve. F'lar liked that touch of F'nor's, totting up the wing strength, as if Fax were incapable of counting.
Forest! They seek your trees to sleep among,
With their long sentences hung. Forest!
Our skills, you will find, could be our jailers.
The thick plottens.
Nordlings. The men before men, creatures of great power and incredible cruelty.
The authors of all our misfortune.
The venal herd.
[Lat., Venale pecus.]