A good man never dies.
More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
A great book is like great evil.
To little men, gods send little things.
I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.