Men Quotes

When a Man has Married a WifeHe finds out whetherHer Knees & elbows are onlyglued together.

Works of Art can only be produc'd in Perfection where the Man is either in Affluence or is Above the Care of it.

War is an initiation into the power of life and death. Women touch that power on the moment of birth, men at the edge of death.

No conclusion is more fully established, than the important fact of the total absence of any vestiges of the human species throughout the entire series of geological formations.

All men live in suffering I know as few can know, Whether they take the upper road Or stay content on the low.

Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day.

Many times man lives and dies Betweeen his two eternities, That of race and that of soul, And ancient Ireland knew it all. Whether man die in his bed Or the rifle knocks him dead

A drunkard is a dead man And all dead men are drunk.

A living man is blind and drinks his drop. What matter if the ditches are impure? What matter if I live it all once more?

I long for truth, and yet I cannot stay from that My better self disowns, For a man's attention Brings such satisfaction To the craving in my bones.

O heart, we are old; The living beauty is for younger men: We cannot pay its tribute of wild tears.

For men were born to pray and save: Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

I bear a burden that might well try Men that do all by rule, And what can I That am a wandering-witted fool But pray to God that He ease My great responsibilities?

on the instant clamorous eaves, A climbing moon upon an empty sky, And all that lamentation of the leaves, Could but compose man's image and his cry.

A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Everything that man esteems Endures a moment or a day. Love's pleasure drives his love away, The painter's brush consumes his dreams.

Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, I find under the boughs of love and hate, In all poor foolish things that live a day, Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.

We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936

Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.

Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?

As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead, For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said. Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

How can the arts overcome the slow dying of men's hearts that we call progress ?

While man can still his body keep Wine or love drug him to sleep, Waking he thanks the Lord that he Has body and its stupidity.

Between extremities Man runs his course; A brand, or flaming breath, Comes to destroy All those antinomies Of day and night.

My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day's war with every knave and dolt, Theater business, management of men.

Though logic-choppers rule the town, And every man and maid and boy Has marked a distant object down, An aimless joy is a pure joy.

Those men that in their writings are most wise Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.

Man has created death.

Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch, If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which.

I thought it out this very day, Noon upon the clock, A man may put pretence away Who leans upon a stick, May sing, and sing until he drop, Whether to maid or hag.

No man, even though he be Shakespeare, can write perfectly when his web is woven of threads that have been spun in many lands.

Death and life were not Till man made up the whole, Made lock, stock and barrel Out of his bitter soul

Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span; Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man; Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.

Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.

Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men's ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.

Man is certainly the most disgusting kind of worm that has ever crawled on this stupid ugly planet.

Man is the only animal for whom his own stupid existence is a problem which he has to try in vain to solve.

All great poets have been men of great knowledge.

The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.

However roguish a man may be, he always loves to deal with an honest man.

Every man plays the fool once in his live, but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long.

Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves 'em still two fools.

Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his passion, but it very rarely mends a man's manners.