To me, excessive silence seems to bode as ill as too much shouting.
Of evils current upon earth The worst is money. Money ’tis that sacks Cities, and drives men forth from hearth and home; Warps and seduces native innocence, And breeds a habit of dishonesty.
I say that this crime is holy.
I owe more to the dead, with whom I will spend a much longer time, than I will ever owe to the living.
Alas for the seed of man.
Yes I know sorrow. Know it far too well. My life is a tunnel choked by the sweepings of dread.
You are a woman marked for sorrow.
And remember that the captor is now the captive; the hunter is in the snare. What was won by stealth will not be kept.
For a man to help others with all his gifts and native strength: that is the noblest work.
O waste no fears on me; look to thyself.
This is Electra. Brilliant no more.
Men are of little worth. Their brief lives last a single day. They cannot hold elusive pleasure fast; It melts away. All laurels wither; all illusions fade; Hopes have been phantoms, shade on air-built shade, since time began.
And instead my beloved, luck sent you back to me colder than ashes, later than shadow.
In flood time you can see how some trees bend, and because they bend, even their twigs are safe, while stubborn trees are torn up, roots and all. And the same thing happens in sailing: make your sheet fast, never slacken, – and over you go.
It’s no city at all, owned by one man alone.
Ah! terrible is knowledge to the man Whom knowledge profits not.
Shall we not perish wretchedest of all, If in defiance of the law we cross A monarch’s will? – weak women, think of that, Not framed by nature to contend with men. Remember.
Oed. Must I not fear my mother’s marriage-bed?
The griefs we cause ourselves cut deepest of all.
No pity for these things, there is no pity but mine, oh father, for the pity of your butchering rawblood death.