Dante Alighieri Quotes
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Lying in a featherbed will bring you no fame, nor staying beneath the quilt, and he who uses up his life without achieving fame leaves no more vestige of himself on Earth than smoke in the air or foam upon the water.
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The splendors that belong unto the fame of earth are but a wind, that in the same direction lasts not long.
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The mouse had fallen in with evil cats.
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Pure essence, and pure matter, and the two joined into one were shot forth without flaw, like three bright arrows from a three-string bow.
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At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.
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...ma gia volgena il mio disio e'l velle si come rota ch'igualmente e mossa, l'amor che move: i sole e l'altre stelle ...as a wheel turns smoothtly, free from jars, my will and my desire were turned by love, The love that moves the sun and the other stars.
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Many have justice in their hearts, but slowly it is let fly, for it comes not without council to the bow.
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Oh blind! Oh ignorant, self-seeking cupidity which spurs us so in the short mortal life and steeps us so through all eternity!
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Follow your path, and let the people talk.
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In His will, our peace.
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Nothing which is harmonized by the bond of the Muse can be changed from its own to another language without destroying its sweetness.
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This miserable way is taken by the sorry souls of those who lived without disgrace and without praise. They now commingle with the coward angels, the company of those who were not rebels nor faithful to their God, but stood apart. The heavens, that their beauty not be lessened, have cast them out, nor will deep Hell receive them - even the wicked cannot glory in them.
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Conscience, that boon companion who sets a man free under the strong breastplate of innocence, that bids him on and fear not.
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Not one drop of blood is left inside my veins that does not throb: I recognize signs of the ancient flame.
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Like the lark that soars in the air, first singing, then silent, content with the last sweetness that satiates it, such seemed to me that image, the imprint of the Eternal Pleasure.
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There, pride, avarice, and envy are the tongues men know and heed, a Babel of despair.
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Love is the source of every virtue in you and of every deed which deserves punishment.
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O you, who in some pretty boat, Eager to listen, have been following Behind my ship, that singing sails along Turn back to look again upon your own shores; Tempt not the deep, lest unawares, In losing me, you yourselves might be lost. The sea I sail has never yet been passed; Minerva breathes, and pilots me Apollo, And Muses nine point out to me the Bears. You other few who have neck uplifted Betimes to the bread of angels upon Which one lives and does not grow sated, Well may you launch your vessel Upon the deep sea.
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In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.
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Imagination, that dost so abstract us That we are not aware, not even when A thousand trumpets sound about our ears!
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In judgement be ye not too confident, Even as a man who will appraise his corn When standing in a field, ere it is ripe.
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A man's renown is like the hue of grass, Which comes and goes.
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O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?
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Love and the gentle heart are but the same thing.