Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.