In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
LUCRETIUSMother of Aeneas, pleasure of men and gods.
More Lucretius Quotes
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Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.
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Falling drops will at last wear away stone.
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Those vestiges of natures left behind Which reason cannot quite expel from us Are still so slight that naught prevents a man From living a life even worthy of the gods.
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Under what law each thing was created, and how necessary it is for it to continue under this, and how it cannot annul the strong rules that govern its lifetime.
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You may complete as many generations as you please during your life; none the less will that everlasting death await you.
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Pleasant it to behold great encounters of warfare arrayed over the plains, with no part of yours in peril.
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There is nothing that exists so great or marvelous that over time mankind does not admire it less and less.
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So it is more useful to watch a man in times of peril, and in adversity to discern what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off, reality remains.
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From the midst of the very fountain of pleasure, something of bitterness arises to vex us in the flower of enjoyment.
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Thus it comes That earth, without her seasons of fixed rains, Could bear no produce such as makes us glad, And whatsoever lives, if shut from food, Prolongs its kind and guards its life no more.
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Meantime, when once we know from nothing still Nothing can be create, we shall divine More clearly what we seek: those elements From which alone all things created are, And how accomplished by no tool of Gods.
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All nature, then, as self-sustained, consists Of twain of things: of bodies and of void In which they’re set, and where they’re moved around.
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Things stand apart so far and differ, that What’s food for one is poison for another.
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The old must always make way for the new, and one thing must be built out of the ruins of another. There is no murky pit of hell awaiting anyone.
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These the senses we trust, first, last, and always.
LUCRETIUS