Contemplate the extent and stability of the heavens, and then at last cease to admire worthless things.
BOETHIUSNo man can ever be secure until he has been forsaken by Fortune.
More Boethius Quotes
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Love has three kinds of origin, namely: suffering, friendship and love. A human love has a corporal and intellectual origin.
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The science of numbers ought to be preferred as an acquisition before all others, because of its necessity and because of the great secrets and other mysteries which there are in the properties of numbers. All sciences partake of it, and it has need of none.
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Music is part of us, and either ennobles or degrades our behavior.
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You know when you have found your prince because you not only have a smile on your face but in your heart as well. Love puts the fun in together, the sad in apart, and the joy in a heart. Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law.
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If there is a God, whence proceed so many evils? If there is no God, whence cometh any good?
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Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law.
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Nothing is miserable unless you think it so; and on the other hand, nothing brings happiness unless you are content with it.
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Good men seek it by the natural means of the virtues; evil men, however, try to achieve the same goal by a variety of concupiscences, and that is surely an unnatural way of seeking the good. Don’t you agree?
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Man is so constituted that he then only excels other things when he knows himself.
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Music is so naturally united with us that we cannot be free from it – even if we so desired.
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And no renown can render you well-known: For if you think that fame can lengthen life By mortal famousness immortalized, The day will come that takes your fame as well, And there a second death for you awaits.
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In other living creatures the ignorance of themselves is nature, but in men it is a vice.
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No man can ever be secure until he has been forsaken by Fortune.
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The now that passes produces time, the now that remains produces eternity.
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For in all adversity of fortune the worst sort of misery is to have been happy.
BOETHIUS