John Milton Quotes
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
John Milton
Quotes to Explore
This place is phenomenal. The fans are right on top of the players. You feed off that adrenaline. I really think this environment is a vital part of what's happening here.
Dick Vitale
Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard spectres, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again for ever.
H. Rider Haggard
I find that most of wake up day, not because we genuinely 'want' to, but because we have to. We have to be somewhere, do something, answer to or take care of someone. But when you shift your intention and create a genuine desire - event enthusiasm - for waking up in the morning, your entire life changes.
Hal Elrod
The proud man is forsaken of God.
Plato
The sun exactly at noon is exactly beginning to go down. And a creature when he is born is exactly beginning to die.
Hu Shih
When a rich man dies it is more complex than when a poor man dies. A rich man doesn't simply quit living. He quits being rich, too. Of course a poor man quits being poor when he dies, but that is not a thing to lament.
Elliott Chaze
Players don't really ask for much or want much. But the things that they do need are important.
Sheryl Swoopes
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
John Milton
