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C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Lessing

  • But how many moments are already past!
  • Ah! who thinks of those that are past?
  • What could a woman’s head contrive
  • Which it would not know how to excuse?
  • While Fell was reposing himself in the hay,
  • A reptile concealed bit his leg as he lay;
  • But, all venom himself, of the wound he made light,
  • And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.
  • A single grateful thought towards heaven is the most perfect prayer.

    Ah! would that we could at once paint with the eyes! In the long way, from the eye, through the arm to the pencil, how much is lost!

    Did the Almighty, holding in his right hand truth, and in his left hand search after truth, deign to proffer me the one I might prefer, in all humility, but without hesitation, I should request search after truth.

    For the will and not the gift makes the giver.

    He who knows much has many cares.

    He who loses not his senses in certain things has no senses to lose.

    How can such deep-imprinted images sleep in us at times, till a word, a sound, awake them?

    If the advice of a fool for once happens to be good, it requires a wise man to carry it out.

    It is medicine, not poison, I offer you.

    Nature intended that woman should be her masterpiece.

    Nothing under the sun is accident.

    Pure truth is for God alone.

    Resist as much as thou wilt; heaven’s ways are heaven’s ways.

    Suspicion follows close on mistrust.

    The eye of Paul Pry often finds more than he wished to find.

    The gift of prayer is not always at our command.

    The most agreeable of all companions is a simple, frank man, without any high pretensions to an oppressive greatness,—one who loves life, and understands the use of it; obliging alike at all hours; above all, of a golden temper, and steadfast as an anchor. For such an one we gladly exchange the greatest genius, the most brilliant wit, the profoundest thinker.

    The real beggar is indeed the true and only king.

    The superstition in which we were brought up never loses its power over us, even after we understand it.

    The true vagrant is the only king above all comparison.

    Think wrongly, if you please, but in all cases think for yourself.

    We seldom speak of the virtue which we have, but much oftener of that which we lack.

    What can the Creator see with greater pleasure than a happy creature?