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Whenever evil befalls us, we ought to ask ourselves, after the first suffering, how we can turn it into good. So shall we take occasion, from one bitter root, to raise perhaps many flowers.

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We are Lilies fair, The flower of virgin light; Nature held us forth, and said, 'Lo! my thoughts of white.'

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Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear.

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For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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Men of genius are often dull and inert in society, as a blazing meteor when it descends to earth, is only a stone.

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Life is real Life is earnest And the grave is not its goal Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

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Give what you have. To some it may be better than you dare think.

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I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding.

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Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate Still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.

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Let us, then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.

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There was a little girl Who had a little curl...

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I stood on the bridge at midnight, / As the clocks were striking the hour.

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We judge ourselves by what we are capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

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I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroken; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

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Learn to labour and to wait.

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No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.

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Life is real! Life is earnest! And death is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

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Into each life some rain must fall, some days be dark and dreary.

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The world loves a spice of wickedness.

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How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it, except the pleasure of seeing it

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