Fare Thee Well Quotes

Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever fare thee well.

FARE THEE WELL, FRIEND, said the arrow. APOLLO WILL FALL, BUT APOLLO MUST RISE AGAIN.

Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.

Fare thee well my nightingale I lived but to be near you Though you are singing somewhere still I can no longer hear you

Fare thee well/ A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK O, stay but till then! BEATRICE 'Then' is spoken; fare you well now... (Much Ado About Nothing)

Her books on alchemy were marvellous objects, every page a work of the engraver's art, but they nowhere contained instructions like "Be sure to open a window". They did have instructions like "Adde Aqua Quirmis to the Zinc untile Rising Gas Yse Vigorousky Evolved", but never added "Don't Doe Thys Atte Home" or even "And Say Fare-Thee-Welle to Thy Eyebrows.

I had grown accustomed to my station here. Enduring it as if lost in a dream. But today, my eyes have been opened. Today, I awake. Too long have I suffered adversity. Pain from the actions of those entrusted with protecting me. Forging on, my past shall not define me, even as I stand afeard a resurgence of my true vulnerabilities. The time has come at last to abandon this isle. To depart, never to return. Fare thee well, O home. Wait for my return no longer. Onward I must proceed with strength in each footfall Evermore haunted with the memories of the man I used to be. For my old home is now behind me. Faith is my new home.

Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.

But ’tis done—all words are idle— Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle 55 Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.

Tell me something," Xcor drawled. "Yes?" "Is his piggish head still attached to that weak little body of his?" Assail chuckled. "No." "Do you know that is among my favorite ways of killing?" "A warming for me, Xcor? ... "No," he declared. "Just something we have in common. Fare thee well, Assail, for what is left of this night." "Yourself as well. And in the words of our mutual acquaintance, I must needs go. Afore I am forced to slaughter the doggen butler who is pounding, at this very instant, upon the door I have locked." Xcor threw his head back and laughed as he ended the call. "You know," he said to his fighters, "I rather like him.

So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness—Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless!

Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well. A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

Your reading should be fun. We only call them literary works. Really, though, it's all a form of play. So play, Dear Reader, play. And fare thee well.

So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness— Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together—there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!

Greybeard Halt is a friend of mine He lives on Redmont hill Greybeard Halt never took a bath And they say he never will! Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt Fare thee well, I say Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt I’ll see you on your way Greybeard Halt, he lost a bet He lost his winter cloak When winter comes, Halt stays warm By sleeping 'mongst the goats. Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt Fare thee well, I say Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt I'll see you on your way. Greybeard Halt, he lives with goats That's what I’ve heard tell He hasn’t changed his socks for years But the goats don't mind the smell! Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt Fare thee well, I say Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt I’ll see you on your way Greybeard Halt is a fighting man I’ve heard common talk That Greybeard Halt, he cuts his hair With his saxe knife and fork! Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt Fare thee well, I say Fare thee well, Greybeard Halt I’ll see you on your way

m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe Where I’m bound, I can’t tell But goodbye’s too good a word, gal So I’ll just say fare thee well I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind You could have done better but I don’t mind You just kinda wasted my precious time But don’t think twice, it’s all right

As every blossom fades and all youth sinks into old age, so every life’s design, each flower of wisdom, attains its prime and cannot last forever. The heart must submit itself courageously to life’s call without a hint of grief, A magic dwells in each beginning, protecting us, telling us how to live. High purposed we shall traverse realm on realm, cleaving to none as to a home, the world of spirit wishes not to fetter us but raise us higher, step by step. Scarce in some safe accustomed sphere of life have we establish a house, then we grow lax; only he who is ready to journey forth can throw old habits off. Maybe death’s hour too will send us out new-born towards undreamed-lands, maybe life’s call to us will never find an end Courage my heart, take leave and fare thee well.

We which were Ovids five books, now are three, For these before the rest preferreth he: If reading five thou plainst of tediousnesse, Two tane away, thy labor will be lesse: With Muse upreard I meant to sing of armes, Choosing a subject fit for feirse alarmes: Both verses were alike till Love (men say) Began to smile and tooke one foote away. Rash boy, who gave thee power to change a line? We are the Muses prophets, none of thine. What if thy Mother take Dianas bowe, Shall Dian fanne when love begins to glowe? In wooddie groves ist meete that Ceres Raigne, And quiver bearing Dian till the plaine: Who'le set the faire treste sunne in battell ray, While Mars doth take the Aonian harpe to play? Great are thy kingdomes, over strong and large, Ambitious Imp, why seekst thou further charge? Are all things thine? the Muses Tempe thine? Then scarse can Phoebus say, this harpe is mine. When in this workes first verse I trod aloft, Love slackt my Muse, and made my numbers soft. I have no mistris, nor no favorit, Being fittest matter for a wanton wit, Thus I complaind, but Love unlockt his quiver, Tooke out the shaft, ordaind my hart to shiver: And bent his sinewy bow upon his knee, Saying, Poet heers a worke beseeming thee. Oh woe is me, he never shootes but hits, I burne, love in my idle bosome sits. Let my first verse be sixe, my last five feete, Fare well sterne warre, for blunter Poets meete. Elegian Muse, that warblest amorous laies, Girt my shine browe with sea banke mirtle praise. -- P. Ovidii Nasonis Amorum Liber Primus ELEGIA 1 (Quemadmodum a Cupidine, pro bellis amores scribere coactus sit)

So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness: Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together; there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!

It will be seen that this mere painstaking burrower and grubworm of a poor devil of a Sub-Sub appears to have gone through the long Vaticans and street-stalls of the earth, picking up whatever random allusions to whales he could anyways find in any book whatsoever, sacred or profane. Therefore you must not, in every case at least, take the higgledy-piggledy whale statements, however authentic, in these extracts, for veritable gospel cetology. Far from it. As touching the ancient authors generally, as well as the poets here appearing, these extracts are solely valuable or entertaining, as affording a glancing bird's eye view of what has been promiscuously said, thought, fancied, and sung of Leviathan, by many nations and generations, including our own. So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness — Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together — there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!

But king Eteocles heaving from his breast his gasping breath, heard his mother, and putting out his cold clammy hand, sent not forth indeed a voice; but from his eyes spoke her in tears to signify affection. But Polynices, who yet breathed, looking at his sister and his aged mother, thus spoke: "We perish, O my mother; but I grieve for thee, and for this my sister, and my brother who lies dead, for being my friend, he became my enemy, but still my friend.—But bury me, O mother of my being, and thou my sister, in my native land, and pacify the exasperated city, that I may obtain thus much at least of my country's land, although I have lost the palace. And close my eyelids with thy hand, my mother" (and he places it himself upon his eyes), "and fare ye well! for now darkness surroundeth me." And both breathed out their lives together. And the mother, when she saw what had taken place, beyond endurance grieving, snatched the sword from the dead body, and perpetrated a deed of horror; for she drove the steel through the middle of her throat, and lies dead on those most dear to her, having each in her arms embraced.

And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty— As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed— Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too! No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it. ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. ’Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favor’d children. ’Tis not her glass, but you that flatters her, And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself, down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can, you are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

A week is a long time to go without bedding someone?” Marcus interrupted, one brow arching. “Are you going to claim that it’s not?” “St. Vincent, if a man has time to bed a woman more than once a week, he clearly doesn’t have enough to do. There are any number of responsibilities that should keep you sufficiently occupied in lieu of…” Marcus paused, considering the exact phrase he wanted. “Sexual congress.” A pronounced silence greeted his words. Glancing at Shaw, Marcus noticed his brother-in-law’s sudden preoccupation with knocking just the right amount of ash from his cigar into a crystal dish, and he frowned. “You’re a busy man, Shaw, with business concerns on two continents. Obviously you agree with my statement.” Shaw smiled slightly. “My lord, since my ‘sexual congress’ is limited exclusively to my wife, who happens to be your sister, I believe I’ll have the good sense to keep my mouth shut.” St. Vincent smiled lazily. “It’s a shame for a thing like good sense to get in the way of an interesting conversation.” His gaze switched to Simon Hunt, who wore a slight frown. “Hunt, you may as well render your opinion. How often should a man make love to a woman? Is more than once a week a case for unpardonable gluttony?” Hunt threw Marcus a vaguely apologetic glance. “Much as I hesitate to agree with St. Vincent…” Marcus scowled as he insisted, “It is a well-known fact that sexual over-indulgence is bad for the health, just as with excessive eating and drinking—” “You’ve just described my perfect evening, Westcliff,” St. Vincent murmured with a grin, and returned his attention to Hunt. “How often do you and your wife—” “The goings-on in my bedroom are not open for discussion,” Hunt said firmly. “But you lie with her more than once a week?” St. Vincent pressed. “Hell, yes,” Hunt muttered. “And well you should, with a woman as beautiful as Mrs. Hunt,” St. Vincent said smoothly, and laughed at the warning glance that Hunt flashed him. “Oh, don’t glower—your wife is the last woman on earth whom I would have any designs on. I have no desire to be pummeled to a fare-thee-well beneath the weight of your ham-sized fists. And happily married women have never held any appeal for me—not when unhappily married ones are so much easier.” He looked back at Marcus. “It seems that you are alone in your opinion, Westcliff. The values of hard work and self-discipline are no match for a warm female body in one’s bed.” Marcus frowned. “There are more important things.” “Such as?” St. Vincent inquired with the exaggerated patience of a rebellious lad being subjected to an unwanted lecture from his decrepit grandfather. “I suppose you’ll say something like ‘social progress’? Tell me, Westcliff…” His gaze turned sly. “If the devil proposed a bargain to you that all the starving orphans in England would be well-fed from now on, but in return you would never be able to lie with a woman again, which would you choose? The orphans, or your own gratification?” “I never answer hypothetical questions.” St. Vincent laughed. “As I thought. Bad luck for the orphans, it seems.

…fare-thee-well dear friend. Steady on… until we meet again.

She was not at the concert any more. She looked around the rustic room, blinking. What the hell? The singer had her in his arms still. There was no balcony between them now. His hands slid into her hair, keeping her head still. "Not yet," he begged, sliding his lips down her throat, nuzzling her jaw. "There's time yet, Toireasa," he murmured. "Time to say fare thee well properly,." "We should have returned to Ireland, Breandan," she whispered, as he loosened the ties on her gown and dropped it from her shoulders. The words came to her naturally, even as a tiny voice was raging in her mind, "What on earth are you saying, Taylor?" But that voice was being drowned out by the pure sensuousness he was stirring in her.

Drummer Hart has never slowed down—from ancillary projects like an art exhibit of slices of bark from redwood trees he found on his morning walks around his Sonoma ranch to a deep plunge into astrophysics with Nobel laureate George Smoot, manipulating sounds recorded from deep in space. Using UC Berkeley’s supercomputer, Smoot and his team showed Hart waveforms millions of years old and he turned them into sound files—sonifications—to use in recordings. Hart was literally playing with the Big Bang.

After the concert, for an additional $150, VIPs could attend a reception in the auditorium’s upstairs ballroom, where they nibbled expensive desserts and listened to a string quartet play while a bluegrass fiddler sat atop a large wrapped gift box and sang “Box of Rain.” Wavy Gravy, the clown prince of Woodstock, dressed as Ludwig van Beethoven, sang “Happy Birthday” to the birthday boy, who was accepting his well-wishers while seated on a king’s throne on the stage, as regal as a king without actually wearing a crown. “Don’t eat the brown strudel,” warned Gravy.

Tensions spread from the front office to backstage. At the Raleigh, North Carolina, stop the first week, Mickey Hart told manager Cameron Sears he didn’t want to see Weir on his bus that night. In the middle of Hart’s spaghetti dinner, however, Weir climbed aboard Hart’s bus and started making his way down the aisle. “Don’t you RatDog this band,” shouted Hart. Weir unceremoniously dumped Hart’s plate of spaghetti on his lap. Judo black-belt Hart leaped out of his seat, slapped a quick move on his erstwhile bandmate, threw him down to the floor—“You understand that I love you,” he told Weir—and escorted him off the bus. Nobody said a word.

The next night was an off night in Virginia Beach, and Hart sent a room service spaghetti dinner to Weir and his girlfriend, Natascha. “I love you more than spaghetti,” read the note. When he joined them for the dinner, they sat down talking like nothing had ever happened the night before. Brothers will fight.

We treat it as repertoire. In Grateful Dead terms, that means every performance can be different. All versions of the songs are true, just like a fairy tale.

Weir had become a modern-day troubadour—an ancient archetype certain to be recognized by Joseph Campbell, the myth expert and author of Hero with a Thousand Faces, the book on which film director George Lucas partially based his Star Wars trilogy. Campbell was one of dozens of unlikely people to stumble into the Dead camp. At Mickey Hart’s invitation, Campbell attended a Grateful Dead concert. Campbell told Hart he could tell “the band is tied at the heart. You are shaking hands with the ancients.” Campbell was guest of honor at a dinner party Hart threw at his home that Weir also attended.

John Mayer

The Grateful Dead has always worked as a democracy,” Hart continued. “Phil’s the odd man out. So he took his marbles and split, like a little boy would. That’s his prerogative; God bless him, I wish him well. But believe me, we don’t miss him. We’re having a great time without him. It couldn’t be better. If someone doesn’t want to play with you, you don’t play with them. We have no fight with him; he’s sort of at odds with himself. I think that liver transplant didn’t go so well. He might have gotten the liver of a jerk.

Dear Friends & Family: We regret to announce that Steve Kimock has chosen to flee the Bob Dylan / Phil Lesh Tour. We apologize for any inconvenience, pray for your forgiveness, and look forward to your continued support. “I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s Farm no more…” Signed, running & shooting behind him as fast as he can… —Steve Kimock

hI parted from my father, The man I most adore, But God decreed that later We'd meet again, once more. A year we were asunder, But once our rift was done, His greeting that he gave me Was "Fare thee well, my son.

One and twenty fare-thee-wells!

Thee asked me where I'd been and how I'd fared. I've been quite a step. . . and fared mighty well the whole ways. If a man'd fared any better'n me it'd unsettled his mind. I've had two eyes and seen sights so pretty there's no words to duplicate them. I've drunk the wine of astonishment. . .standing still, gazing. I've had two feet and no better land anywhere to walk on. Green plush grass in spring, and leaves like a carpet in fall. I've smelled white clover in daytime and quenched my thirst with live spring-water. I've earned my bread in the sweat of my brow, and still do, hard-scrabble like any other man, but making out. I've had for wife the one woman I'd choose, and been free to lift my voice to God. Though mighty backward, I reckon, in making out what He's had to say to me. I've fared so well. . . .that a jot more'n I'd be crying.