“Strange customs do not thrive in foreign soil.”

Ever building, building to the clouds, still building higher, and never reflecting that the poor narrow basis cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.

I am called The richest monarch in the Christian world; The sun in my dominion never sets.

It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons.

There is a nobility in the world of manners.

Seraphs share with thee Knowledge; but Art, O Man, is thine alone!

For the world is only governed by self-interest.

The average estimate themselves by what they do, the above average by what they are.

Wouldst thou know thyself, observe the actions of others. Wouldst thou other men know, look thou within thine own heart.

Emulation is a noble and just passion, full of appreciation.

Revenge is barren of itself: it is the dreadful food it feeds on; its delight is murder, and its end is despair.

Truth lives on in the midst of deception.

Even now, nature is the only flame, on which the poetic spirit feeds; from it alone it draws all its power, to it alone it speaks even in the artificial, in the man engaged in culture.

Time consecrates; and what is gray with age becomes religion.

It hinders the creative work of the mind if the intellect examines too closely the ideas as they pour in.

Gray hairs are death’s blossoms.

Love is only known by him who hopelessly persists in love.

The morality of customs,the spirit of the laws, produces the man emancipated from the law.

Laws have come down to us from old customs and folk-ways based on primitive ideas of man’s origin, capacity and responsibility.

There is no tyrant like custom, and no freedom where its edicts are not resisted.

I have always loved fashion since I was a kid and customized my school uniforms.

Responsibility, n. A detachable burden easily shifted to the shoulders of God, Fate, Fortune, Luck or one’s neighbor. In the days of astrology it was customary to unload it upon a star.

The life of prayer is just love to God, and the custom of being ever with Him.

Of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them.

No particular motive for living, except the custom and habit of it.