Quotes about grievous (16 Quotes)


    Men expect that religion should cost them no pains, that happiness should drop into their laps without any design and endeavor on their part, and that, after they have done what they please while they live, God should snatch them up to heaven when they die. But though 'the commandments of God be not grievous,' yet it is fit to let men know that they are not thus easy.




    The fair-weather gardener, who will do nothing except when wind and weather and everything else are favourable, is never a master of his craft. Gardening, above all other crafts, is a matter of faith, grounded, however (if on nothing better), on his experience that somehow or other seasons go on in their right course, and bring their right results. No doubt bad seasons are a trial of his faith it is grievous to lose the fruits of much labour by a frosty winter or a droughty summer, but, after all, frost and drought are necessities for which, in all his calculations, he must leave an ample margin but even in the extreme cases, when the margin is past, the gardener's occupation is not gone.



    Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Csar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones So let it be with Csar. The noble Brutus Hath told Csar was ambitious If it were so, it was a grievous fault And grievously hath Csar answerd it.... . For Brutus is an honourable man So are they all, all honourable men.... . He was my friend, faithful and just to me But Brutus says he was ambitious And Brutus is an honourable man.... . When that the poor have cried, Csar hath wept Ambition should be made of sterner stuff .... You all did love him once, not without cause.



    To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans,
    Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth
    With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights;
    If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;
    If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
    However, but a folly bought with wit,
    Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

    I am going a long way With these thou sestif indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.


    Love in a hut, with water and crust, Is Love, forgive uscinders, ashes, dust Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermits fast.


    It is grievous to read the papers in most respects, I agree. More and more I skim the headlines only, for one can be sure what is carried beneath them quite automatically, if one has long been a reader of the press journalism.




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