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By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent, and what to those we give, to Jove is lent.
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Too dear I prized a fair enchanting face: beauty unchaste is beauty in disgrace.
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Each man delights in the work that suits him best.
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Nothing feebler does earth nurture than man, Of all things breathing and moving.
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There is satiety in all things, in sleep, and love-making, in the loveliness of singing and the innocent dance.
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It is not strength, but art, obtains the prize, And to be swift is less than to be wise.
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Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.
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Pine needle sorbet? Pine needle sorbet?! My kids do NOT eat sorbet. They eat sherbet, and they pronounce it sherbert, and they wish it was ice cream!
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I want answers now or I want them eventually!
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Jove lifts the golden balances that show The fates of mortal men, and things below.
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Pray, for all men need the aid of the gods.
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Nothing in the world is so incontinent as a man's accursed appetite.
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I've finally tapped into that spirit of self-destruction that makes rock-n-roll the king of music!
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Union Rule 26: Every employee must win 'Worker of the Week' at least once, regardless of gross incompetence, obesity or rank odor.
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'Yea and I beheld Sisyphus in strong torment, grasping a monstrous stone with both his hands. He was pressing thereat with hands and feet, and trying to roll the stone upward toward the brow of the hill. But oft as he was about to hurl it over the top, the weight would drive him back, so once again to the plain rolled the stone, the shameless thing. And he once more kept heaving and straining, and the sweat the while was pouring down his limbs, and the dust rose upwards from his head.
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A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows; One should our interests and our passions be, My friend must hate the man that injures me.
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Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.
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The blade itself incites to deeds of violence.
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True friends appear less moved than counterfeit.
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Out of sight, out of mind.