L.
Labor.—Labor is the divine law of our existence; repose is desertion and suicide.—Mazzini.
Labor is life: from the inmost heart of the worker rises his God-given force, the sacred celestial life-essence breathed into him by Almighty God!—Carlyle.
The fact is nothing comes; at least nothing good. All has to be fetched.—Charles Buxton.
Genius begins great works, labor alone finishes them.—Joubert.
As steady application to work is the healthiest training for every individual, so is it the best discipline of a state. Honorable industry always travels the same road with enjoyment and duty, and progress is altogether impossible without it.—Samuel Smiles.
Nature is just towards men. It recompenses them for their sufferings; it renders them laborious, because to the greatest toils it attaches the greatest rewards.—Montesquieu.
Virtue's guard is Labor, ease her sleep.—Tasso.
Alexander the Great, reflecting on his friends degenerating into sloth and luxury, told them that it was a most slavish thing to luxuriate, and a most royal thing to labor.—Barrow.
Many young painters would never have taken their pencils in hand if they could have felt, known, and understood, early enough, what really produced a master like Raphael.—Goethe.
He that thinks that diversion may not lie in hard labor forgets the early rising and hard riding of huntsmen.—Locke.
The pain of life but sweetens death; the hardest labor brings the soundest sleep.—Albert Smith.
What men want is not talent, it is purpose; not the power to achieve, but the will to labor.—Bulwer-Lytton.
The true epic of our times is not "arms and the man," but "tools and the man," an infinitely wider kind of epic.—Carlyle.
Labor is the curse of the world, and nobody can meddle with it without becoming proportionably brutified!—Hawthorne.
Land.—There is a distinct joy in owning land, unlike that which you have in money, in houses, in books, pictures, or anything else which men have devised. Personal property brings you into society with men. But land is a part of God's estate in the globe; and when a parcel of ground is deeded to you, and you walk over it, and call it your own, it seems as if you had come into partnership with the original Proprietor of the earth.—Beecher.
Language.—The Creator has gifted the whole universe with language, but few are the hearts that can interpret it. Happy those to whom it is no foreign tongue, acquired imperfectly with care and pain, but rather a native language, learned unconsciously from the lips of the great mother.—Bulwer-Lytton.
The key to the sciences.—Bruyère.
A countryman is as warm in fustian as a king in velvet, and a truth is as comfortable in homely language as in fine speech. As to the way of dishing up the meat, hungry men leave that to the cook, only let the meat be sweet and substantial.—Spurgeon.
The machine of the poet.—Macaulay.
Poetry, indeed, cannot be translated; and, therefore, it is the poets that preserve the languages; for we would not be at the trouble to learn a language if we could have all that is written in it just as well in a translation. But as the beauties of poetry cannot be preserved in any language except that in which it was originally written, we learn the language.—Johnson.
Language most shows a man; speak that I may see thee: it springs out of the most retired and inmost part of us.—Ben Jonson.
If the way in which men express their thoughts is slipshod and mean, it will be very difficult for their thoughts themselves to escape being the same. If it is high flown and bombastic, a character for national simplicity and thankfulness cannot long be maintained.—Dean Alford.
Laughter.—Conversation never sits easier than when we now and then discharge ourselves in a symphony of laughter; which may not improperly be called the chorus of conversation.—Steele.
The laughers are a majority.—Pope.
Learn from the earliest days to inure your principles against the perils of ridicule: you can no more exercise your reason, if you live in the constant dread of laughter, than you can enjoy your life if you are in the constant terror of death.—Sydney Smith.
How much lies in laughter: the cipher key, wherewith we decipher the whole man!—Carlyle.
God made both tears and laughter, and both for kind purposes; for as laughter enables mirth and surprise to breathe freely, so tears enable sorrow to vent itself patiently. Tears hinder sorrow from becoming despair and madness.—Leigh Hunt.
How inevitably does an immoderate laughter end in a sigh!—South.
Laughing, if loud, ends in a deep sigh; and all pleasures have a sting in the tail, though they carry beauty on the face.—Jeremy Taylor.
Laughter means sympathy.—Carlyle.
One good, hearty laugh is a bombshell exploding in the right place, while spleen and discontent are a gun that kicks over the man who shoots it off.—De Witt Talmage.
I am sure that since I had the use of my reason, no human being has ever heard me laugh.—Chesterfield.
I like the laughter that opens the lips and the heart, that shower at the same time pearls and the soul.—Victor Hugo.
Laughter is a most healthful exertion; it is one of the greatest helps to digestion with which I am acquainted; and the custom prevalent among our forefathers, of exciting it at table by jesters and buffoons, was founded on true medical principles.—Dr. Hufeland.
Law.—With us, law is nothing unless close behind it stands a warm, living public opinion. Let that die or grow indifferent, and statutes are waste paper, lacking all executive force.—Wendell Phillips.
Of all the parts of a law, the most effectual is the vindicatory; for it is but lost labor to say, "Do this, or avoid that," unless we also declare, "This shall be the consequence of your non-compliance." The main strength and force of a law consists in the penalty annexed to it.—Blackstone.
If there be any one principle more widely than another confessed by every utterance, or more sternly than another imprinted on every atom of the visible creation, that principle is not liberty, but law.—Ruskin.
It would be very singular if this great shad-net of the law did not enable men to catch at something, balking for the time the eternal flood-tide of justice.—Chapin.
True law is right reason conformably to nature, universal, unchangeable, eternal, whose commands urge us to duty, and whose prohibitions restrain us from evil.—Cicero.
Aristotle himself has said, speaking of the laws of his own country, that jurisprudence, or the knowledge of those laws, is the principal and most perfect branch of ethics.—Blackstone.
In effect, to follow, not to force, the public inclination, to give a direction, a form, a technical dress, and a specific sanction, to the general sense of the community, is the true end of legislation.—Burke.
In the habits of legal men every accusation appears insufficient if they do not exaggerate it even to calumny. It is thus that justice itself loses its sanctity and its respect amongst men.—Lamartine.
Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.—Shakespeare.
It is a very easy thing to devise good laws; the difficulty is to make them effective. The great mistake is that of looking upon men as virtuous, or thinking that they can be made so by laws; and consequently the greatest art of a politician is to render vices serviceable to the cause of virtue.—Bolingbroke.
A mouse-trap; easy to enter but not easy to get out of.—Mrs Balfour.
What can idle laws do with morals?—Horace.
The law is a gun, which if it misses a pigeon always kills a crow; if it does not strike the guilty it hits some one else. As every crime creates a law, so in turn every law creates a crime.—Bulwer-Lytton.
Learning.—It adds a precious seeing to the eye.—Shakespeare.
You are to consider that learning is of great use to society; and though it may not add to the stock, it is a necessary vehicle to transmit it to others. Learned men are the cisterns of knowledge, not the fountain-heads.—James Northcote.
Learning makes a man fit company for himself.—Young.
Learning maketh young men temperate, is the comfort of old age, standing for wealth with poverty, and serving as an ornament to riches.—Cicero.
The chief art of learning, as Locke has observed, is to attempt but little at a time. The widest excursions of the mind are made by short flights frequently repeated; the most lofty fabrics of science are formed by the continued accumulation of single propositions.—Johnson.
No man can ever want this mortification of his vanity, that what he knows is but a very little, in comparison of what he still continues ignorant of. Consider this, and, instead of boasting thy knowledge of a few things, confess and be out of countenance for the many more which thou dost not understand.—Thomas à Kempis.
Suppose we put a tax upon learning? Learning, it is true, is a useless commodity, but I think we had better lay it on ignorance; for learning being the property but of a very few, and those poor ones too, I am afraid we can get little among them; whereas ignorance will take in most of the great fortunes in the kingdom.—Fielding.
For ignorance of all things is an evil neither terrible nor excessive, nor yet the greatest of all; but great cleverness and much learning, if they be accompanied by a bad training is a much greater misfortune.—Plato.
No power can exterminate the seeds of liberty when it has germinated in the blood of brave men. Our religion of to-day is still that of martyrdom; to-morrow it will be the religion of victory.—Mazzini.
Leisure.—"Never less idle than when idle," was the motto which the admirable Vittoria Colonna wrought upon her husband's dressing-gown. And may we not justly regard our appreciation of leisure as a test of improved character and growing resources?—Tuckerman.
Leisure is gone; gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, and the pack-horses, and the slow wagons, and the peddlers who brought bargains to the door on sunny afternoons.—George Eliot.
Libels.—Undoubtedly the good fame of every man ought to be under the protection of the laws, as well as his life and liberty and property. Good fame is an outwork that defends them all and renders them all valuable. The law forbids you to revenge; when it ties up the hands of some, it ought to restrain the tongues of others.—Burke.
If it was a new thing, it may be I should not be displeased with the suppression of the first libel that should abuse me; but, since there are enough of them to make a small library, I am secretly pleased to see the number increased, and take delight in raising a heap of stones that envy has cast at me without doing me any harm.—Balzac.
Liberty.—Liberty is the right to do what the laws allow; and if a citizen could do what they forbid, it would be no longer liberty, because others would have the same powers.—Montesquieu.
If the true spark of religious and civil liberty be kindled, it will burn. Human agency cannot extinguish it. Like the earth's central fire, it may be smothered for a time; the ocean may overwhelm it; mountains may press it down; but its inherent and unconquerable force will heave both the ocean and the land, and at some time or another, in some place or another, the volcano will break out and flame to heaven.—Daniel Webster.
Interwoven is the love of liberty with every ligament of the heart.—Washington.
Library.—A large library is apt to distract rather than to instruct the learner; it is much better to be confined to a few authors than to wander at random over many.—Seneca.
He has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of an antique world, and the glories of a modern one.—Longfellow.
What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labors to these Bodleians were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odor of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard.—Lamb.
Life.—Life is a quaint puzzle. Bits the most incongruous join into each other, and the scheme thus gradually becomes symmetrical and clear; when, lo! as the infant clasps his hands, and cries, "See, see! the puzzle is made out," all the pieces are swept back into the box—black box with the gilded nails!—Bulwer-Lytton.
We never live, but we ever hope to live.—Pascal.
Life is like a beautiful and winding lane, on either side bright flowers, and beautiful butterflies, and tempting fruits, which we scarcely pause to admire and to taste, so eager are we to hasten to an opening which we imagine will be more beautiful still. But by degrees as we advance, the trees grow bleak; the flowers and butterflies fail, the fruits disappear, and we find we have arrived—to reach a desert waste.—G. A. Sala.
How small a portion of our life it is that we really enjoy! In youth we are looking forward to things that are to come; in old age we are looking backwards to things that are gone past; in manhood, although we appear indeed to be more occupied in things that are present, yet even that is too often absorbed in vague determinations to be vastly happy on some future day when we have time.—Colton.
The days of our years are three-score years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be four-score years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.—Bible.
When I reflect upon what I have seen, what I have heard, what I have done, I can hardly persuade myself that all that frivolous hurry and bustle and pleasure of the world had any reality; and I look on what has passed as one of those wild dreams which opium occasions, and I by no means wish to repeat the nauseous dose for the sake of the fugitive illusion.—Chesterfield.
Life is like a game of whist. I don't enjoy the game much, but I like to play my cards well, and see what will be the end of it.—George Eliot.
He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best; and he whose heart beats the quickest lives the longest.—James Martineau.
Life is so complicated a game that the devices of skill are liable to be defeated at every turn by air-blown chances, incalculable as the descent of thistledown.—George Eliot.
When we embark in the dangerous ship called Life, we must not, like Ulysses, be tied to the mast; we must know how to listen to the songs of the sirens and to brave their blandishments.—Arsène Houssaye.
Life is thick sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes the greater is their power to harm us.—Voltaire.
The earnestness of life is the only passport to the satisfaction of life.—Theodore Parker.
I am convinced that there is no man that knows life well, and remembers all the incidents of his past existence, who would accept it again; we are certainly here to punish precedent sins.—Campbell.
The childhood of immortality.—Goethe.
So our lives glide on; the river ends we don't know where, and the sea begins, and then there is no more jumping ashore.—George Eliot.
We never think of the main business of life till a vain repentance minds us of it at the wrong end.—L'Estrange.
This tide of man's life after it once turneth and declineth ever runneth with a perpetual ebb and falling stream, but never floweth again.—Sir W. Raleigh.
If the first death be the mistress of mortals, and the mistress of the universe, reflect then on the brevity of life. "I have been, and that is all," said Saladin the Great, who was conqueror of the East. The longest liver had but a handful of days, and life itself is but a circle, always beginning where it ends.—Henry Mayhew.
Why all this toil for the triumphs of an hour?—Young.
The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh.—Prior.
Life's short summer—man is but a flower.—Johnson.
Man lives only to shiver and perspire.—Sydney Smith.
O frail estate of human things!—Dryden.
Many think themselves to be truly God-fearing when they call this world a valley of tears. But I believe they would be more so, if they called it a happy valley. God is more pleased with those who think everything right in the world, than with those who think nothing right. With so many thousand joys, is it not black ingratitude to call the world a place of sorrow and torment?—Richter.
Life is a progress from want to want, not from enjoyment to enjoyment.—Johnson.
We never live: we are always in the expectation of living.—Voltaire.
Life does not count by years. Some suffer a lifetime in a day, and so grow old between the rising and the setting of the sun.—Augusta Evans.
Light.—Science and art may invent splendid modes of illuminating the apartments of the opulent; but these are all poor and worthless compared with the light which the sun sends into our windows, which he pours freely, impartially, over hill and valley, which kindles daily the eastern and western sky; and so the common lights of reason and conscience and love are of more worth and dignity than the rare endowments which give celebrity to a few.—Dr. Channing.
More light!—Goethe's last words.
Light! Nature's resplendent robe; without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt in gloom.—Thomson.
Hail! holy light, offspring of heaven, first born!—Milton.
We should render thanks to God for having produced this temporal light, which is the smile of heaven and joy of the world, spreading it like a cloth of gold over the face of the air and earth, and lighting it as a torch, by which we might behold his works.—Caussin.
Likeness.—Like, but oh, how different!—Wordsworth.
Lips.—Lips like rosebuds peeping out of snow.—Bailey.
He kissed me hard, as though he'd pluck up kisses by the roots that grew upon my lips.—Shakespeare.
The lips of a fool swallow up himself.—Bible.
Literature.—Literature happens to be the only occupation in which wages are not given in proportion to the goodness of the work done.—Froude.
The literature of a people must spring from the sense of its nationality; and nationality is impossible without self-respect, and self-respect is impossible without liberty.—Mrs. Stowe.
Cleverness is a sort of genius for instrumentality. It is the brain of the hand. In literature, cleverness is more frequently accompanied by wit, genius, and sense, than by humor.—Coleridge.
When literature is the sole business of life, it becomes a drudgery. When we are able to resort to it only at certain hours, it is a charming relaxation. In my earlier days I was a banker's clerk, obliged to be at the desk everyday from ten till five o'clock; and I shall never forget the delight with which, on returning home, I used to read and write during the evening.—Rogers.
Literary history is the great morgue where all seek the dead ones whom they love, or to whom they are related.—Heinrich Heine.
Whatever the skill of any country be in sciences, it is from excellence in polite learning alone that it must expect a character from posterity.—Goldsmith.
Logic.—Logic differeth from rhetoric as the fist from the palm; the one close, the other at large.—Bacon.
Syllogism is of necessary use, even to the lovers of truth, to show them the fallacies that are often concealed in florid, witty, or involved discourses.—Locke.
Logic is the art of convincing us of some truth.—Bruyère.
Love.—Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love, that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, and presently, all humbled, will kiss the rod!—Shakespeare.
Love is the cross and passion of the heart; its end, its errand.—P. L. Bailey.
Love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little and little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to recall the keenness of the first anguish.—George Eliot.
Love while 't is day; night cometh soon, wherein no man or maiden may.—Joaquin Miller.
Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves.—George Eliot.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.—Shakespeare.
Loves change sure as man or moon, and wane like warm full days of June.—Joaquin Miller.
Take of love as a sober man takes wine; do not get drunk.—Alfred de Musset.
Love is the admiration and cherishing of the amiable qualities of the beloved person, upon the condition of yourself being the object of their action. The qualities of the sexes correspond. The man's courage is loved by the woman, whose fortitude again is coveted by the man. His vigorous intellect is answered by her infallible tact. Can it be true, what is so constantly affirmed, that there is no sex in souls? I doubt it—I doubt it exceedingly.—Coleridge.
As love increases prudence diminishes.—Rochefoucauld.
Never self-possessed, or prudent, love is all abandonment.—Emerson.
The desire to be beloved is ever restless and unsatisfied; but the love that flows out upon others is a perpetual well-spring from on high.—L. M. Child.
Love is love's reward.—Dryden.
The violence of love is as much to be dreaded as that of hate. When it is durable, it is serene and equable. Even its famous pains begin only with the ebb of love, for few are indeed lovers, though all would fain be.—Thoreau.
Love makes all things possible.—Shakespeare.
Economy in love is peace to nature, much like economy in worldly matters; we should be prudent, never love too fast; profusion will not, cannot, always last.—Peter Pindar. (John W. Wolcott.)
There is no fear in love, for perfect love casteth out fear.—Bible.
O love! thy essence is thy purity! Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy flame and it is gone for ever, and but leaves a sullied vase,—its pure light lost in shame.—Landor.
The pale complexion of true love.—Shakespeare.
Love has no middle term; it either saves or destroys.—Victor Hugo.
Young love is a flame; very pretty, often very hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. The love of the older and disciplined heart is as coals, deep-burning, unquenchable.—Beecher.
In love's war, he who flies is conqueror.—Mrs. Osgood.
Where there is room in the heart there is always room in the house.—Moore.
Love's like the measles, all the worse when it comes late in life.—Douglas Jerrold.
Only they conquer love who run away.—Carew.
The heart's hushed secret in the soft dark eye.—L. E. Landon.
Love, well thou know'st, no partnership allows; cupid averse rejects divided vows.—Prior.
Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.—Milton.
Those who yield their souls captive to the brief intoxication of love, if no higher and holier feeling mingle with and consecrate their dream of bliss, will shrink trembling from the pangs that attend their waking.—Schlegel.
The first sigh of love is the last of wisdom.—Antoine Bret.
I have enjoyed the happiness of this world, I have lived and have loved.—Richter.
Life is a flower of which love is the honey.—Victor Hugo.
Love is a severe critic. Hate can pardon more than love.—Thoreau.
Young love-making, that gossamer web! Even the points it clings to—the things whence its subtle interlacings are swung—are scarcely perceptible: momentary touches of finger-tips, meetings of rays from blue and dark orbs, unfinished phrases, lightest changes of cheek and lip, faintest tremors. The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs and indefinable joys, yearnings of one life towards another, visions of completeness, indefinite trust.—George Eliot.
Love is the loadstone of love.—Mrs. Osgood.
Love is never lasting which flames before it burns.—Feltham.
The best part of woman's love is worship; but it is hard to her to be sent away with her precious spikenard rejected, and her long tresses, too, that were let fall ready to soothe the wearied feet.—George Eliot.
Love is an Oriental despot.—Madame Swetchine.
We must love as looking one day to hate.—George Herbert.
Love with old men is as the sun upon the snow, it dazzles more than it warms them.—J. Petit Senn.
Love is lowliness; on the wedding ring sparkles no jewel.—Richter.
Love alone is wisdom, love alone is power; and where love seems to fail, it is where self has stepped between and dulled the potency of its rays.—George MacDonald.
To speak of love is to make love.—Balzac.
A man may be a miser of his wealth; he may tie up his talent in a napkin; he may hug himself in his reputation; but he is always generous in his love. Love cannot stay at home; a man cannot keep it to himself. Like light, it is constantly traveling. A man must spend it, must give it away.—Macleod.
Repining love is the stillest; the shady flowers in this spring as in the other, shun sunlight.—Richter.
Love is like the moon; when it does not increase it decreases.—Ségur.
Love is the most terrible, and also the most generous of the passions: it is the only one that includes in its dreams the happiness of some one else.—Alphonse Karr.
A woman whom we truly love is a religion.—Emile de Girardin.
Childhood is only a wearisome prologue: the first act of the human comedy opens only at the moment when love makes a breach in our hearts.—Arsène Houssaye.
The religion of humanity is love.—Mazzini.
He who is intoxicated with wine will be sober again in the course of the night, but he who is intoxicated by the cup-bearer will not recover his senses until the day of judgment.—Saadi.
Love reasons without reason.—Shakespeare.
It seems to me that the coming of love is like the coming of spring—the date is not to be reckoned by the calendar. It may be slow and gradual; it may be quick and sudden. But in the morning, when we wake and recognize a change in the world without, verdure on the trees, blossoms on the sward, warmth in the sunshine, music in the air, we say spring has come.—Bulwer-Lytton.
Love and a cough cannot be hid.—George Herbert.
Love is the most dunder-headed of all the passions; it never will listen to reason. The very rudiments of logic are unknown to it. "Love has no wherefore," says one of the Latin poets.—Bulwer-Lytton.
Love in marriage should be the accomplishment of a beautiful dream, and not, as it too often is, the end.—Alphonse Karr.
One dies twice: to cease to live is nothing, but to cease to love and to be loved is an insupportable death.—Voltaire.
The heart of a woman is never so full of affection that there does not remain a little corner for flattery and love.—Mauvaux.
Love is always blind and tears his hands whenever he tries to gather roses.—Arsène Houssaye.
Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination.—Voltaire.
Oh! I was mad to intoxicate myself with the wine of love, and to extend my hand to the crown of poets. Pleasure! Poetry! you are perfidious friends. Pain follows you closely.—Arsène Houssaye.
If love gives wit to fools, it undoubtedly takes it from wits.—Alphonse Karr.
In love, as in everything else, experience is a physician who never comes until after the disorder is cured.—Mme. de la Tour.
One expresses well only the love he does not feel.—Alphonse Karr.
In love, as in war, a fortress that parleys is half taken.—Marguerite de Valois.
A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest needs, is not to be had where and how she wills: to know that high initiation, she must often tread where it is hard to tread, and feel the chill air, and watch through darkness.—George Eliot.
To love one who loves you, to admire one who admires you, in a word, to be the idol of one's idol, is exceeding the limit of human joy; it is stealing fire from heaven and deserves death.—Madame de Girardin.
But to enlarge or illustrate this power and effects of love is to set a candle in the sun.—Burton.
There are as many kinds of love as there are races. A great tall German, learned, virtuous, phlegmatic, said one day: "Souls are sisters, fallen from heaven, who all at once recognize and run to meet each other." A little dry Frenchman, hot-blooded, witty, lively, replied to him: "You are right; you can always find shoes to fit."—Taine.
Love supreme defies all sophistry.—George Eliot.
It is strange that men will talk of miracles, revelations, inspiration, and the like, as things past, while love remains.—Thoreau.
The love of man to woman is a thing common, and of course, and at first partakes more of instinct and passion than of choice; but true friendship between man and man is infinite and immortal.—Plato.
We look at the one little woman's face we love, as we look at the face of our mother earth, and see all sorts of answers to our own yearnings.—George Eliot.
Take away love, and not physical nature only, but the heart of the moral world would be palsied.—Southey.
Among all the many kinds of first love, that which begins in childish companionship is the strongest and most enduring; when passion comes to unite its force to long affection, love is at its spring-tide.—George Eliot.
Nothing quickens the perceptions like genuine love. From the humblest professional attachment to the most chivalric devotion, what keenness of observation is born under the influence of that feeling which drives away the obscuring clouds of selfishness, as the sun consumes the vapor of the morning.—Tuckerman.
Luck.—Hope nothing from luck, and the probability is that you will be so prepared, forewarned, and forearmed, that all shallow observers will call you lucky.—Bulwer-Lytton.
Luxury.—Whenever vanity and gayety, a love of pomp and dress, furniture, equipage, buildings, great company, expensive diversions, and elegant entertainments get the better of the principles and judgments of men and women, there is no knowing where they will stop, nor into what evils, natural, moral, or political, they will lead us.—John Adams.
He repents on thorns that sleeps in beds of roses.—Quarles.
O brethren, it is sickening work to think of your cushioned seats, your chants, your anthems, your choirs, your organs, your gowns, and your bands, and I know not what besides, all made to be instruments of religious luxury, if not of pious dissipation, while ye need far more to be stirred up and incited to holy ardor for the propagation of the truth as it is in Jesus.—Spurgeon.
O Luxury! Thou curst of heaven's decree.—Goldsmith.
Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.—Shakespeare.
Lying.—Lying's a certain mark of cowardice.—Southern.
There are people who lie simply for the sake of lying.—Pascal.
Every brave man shuns more than death the shame of lying.—Corneille.
It is a hard matter for a man to lie all over, nature having provided king's evidence in almost every member. The hand will sometimes act as a vane, to show which way the wind blows, even when every feature is set the other way; the knees smite together and sound the alarm of fear under a fierce countenance; the legs shake with anger, when all above is calm.—Washington Allston.
Lies exist only to be extinguished.—Carlyle.
A lie that is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.—Tennyson.