The pain that others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away.
Let no man ever cleave to things that are pleasant or to those that are unpleasant. Not to see what is pleasant is pain, and it is pain to see what is unpleasant.
See the Wretch, that long has tost On the thorny bed of Pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again.
They talk of short-lived pleasures: be it so; pain dies as quickly, and lets her weary prisoner go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
World’s use is cold, world’s love is vain, World’s cruelty is bitter bane; But is not the fruit of pain.
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were a day when it was not. It has no future but itself, its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive new periods of pain.
Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other’s pain, And perish in our own.
As an enemy is made more fierce by our flight, so Pain grows proud to see us knuckle under it. She will surrender upon much better terms to those who make head against her.
Our real blessings often appear to us in the shape of pains, losses and disappointments; but let us have patience, and we soon shall see them in their proper figures.
The art of life is the art of avoiding pain.