I count false words the foulest plague of all.
Justice inclines her scales so that wisdom comes at the price of suffering.
Countless chuckles of the waves of the sea.
Let war stay abroad; it makes no difficulty in coming, for the man who will have in him a strong desire for glory. I disapprove of a bird’s battling in its own home.
Everyone’s quick to blame the alien.
The rest, I keep silent: a great ox is treading on my tongue—but the house itself, if it got a voice, would speak very plainly.
And from your city do not wholly banish fear,
For what man living, freed from fear, will still be just?
The sea is there—and who shall quench it?—nurturing the juices which yield much purple worth its weight in silver, wholly renewable, the dye of vestments; there is a remedy for these here with the gods’ help, my lord, from our reserve: the house does not know how to be poor.
There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.
Bronze is a mirror of the face, wine of the mind.
Hell to ships, hell to men, hell to cities.
In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.
Topics: Wisdom, Suffering, God, Sleep, Despair
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