Hale And Hearty Quotes

She wanted, out of a kind of mysterious vindictiveness born of despair, to torture us with her torture, to arraign us, the hale and hearty, in the place of God.

A nice street, Fred. A nice neighborhood. Oh, I know how the intellectuals sneer at suburbia - it's not as romantic as the rat-infested tenements or the hale-and-hearty back-to-the-land stuff. There are no great museums in suburbia, no great forests, no great challenges.

But as you can see, I’m as hale and hearty as ever, may it continue that way. Except for that one scar on my face, my shortness of breath, and the constant twitch in my eyes, I’m in perfect shape.

Morning is the time to hide. They wake up, hale and hearty, their tongues hanging out for order, beauty and justice, baying for their due. Yes, from eight or nine till noon is the dangerous time. But towards noon things quiet down, the most implacable are sated, they go home, it might have been better but they've done a good job, there have been a few survivors but they'll give no more trouble, each man counts his rats.

His day is done. Is done. The news came on the wings of a wind, reluctant to carry its burden. Nelson Mandela’s day is done. The news, expected and still unwelcome, reached us in the United States, and suddenly our world became somber. Our skies were leadened. His day is done. We see you, South African people standing speechless at the slamming of that final door through which no traveller returns. Our spirits reach out to you Bantu, Zulu, Xhosa, Boer. We think of you and your son of Africa, your father, your one more wonder of the world. We send our souls to you as you reflect upon your David armed with a mere stone, facing down the mighty Goliath. Your man of strength, Gideon, emerging triumphant. Although born into the brutal embrace of Apartheid, scarred by the savage atmosphere of racism, unjustly imprisoned in the bloody maws of South African dungeons. Would the man survive? Could the man survive? His answer strengthened men and women around the world. In the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in Chicago’s Loop, in New Orleans Mardi Gras, in New York City’s Times Square, we watched as the hope of Africa sprang through the prison’s doors. His stupendous heart intact, his gargantuan will hale and hearty. He had not been crippled by brutes, nor was his passion for the rights of human beings diminished by twenty-seven years of imprisonment. Even here in America, we felt the cool, refreshing breeze of freedom. When Nelson Mandela took the seat of Presidency in his country where formerly he was not even allowed to vote we were enlarged by tears of pride, as we saw Nelson Mandela’s former prison guards invited, courteously, by him to watch from the front rows his inauguration. We saw him accept the world’s award in Norway with the grace and gratitude of the Solon in Ancient Roman Courts, and the confidence of African Chiefs from ancient royal stools. No sun outlasts its sunset, but it will rise again and bring the dawn. Yes, Mandela’s day is done, yet we, his inheritors, will open the gates wider for reconciliation, and we will respond generously to the cries of Blacks and Whites, Asians, Hispanics, the poor who live piteously on the floor of our planet. He has offered us understanding. We will not withhold forgiveness even from those who do not ask. Nelson Mandela’s day is done, we confess it in tearful voices, yet we lift our own to say thank you. Thank you our Gideon, thank you our David, our great courageous man. We will not forget you, we will not dishonor you, we will remember and be glad that you lived among us, that you taught us, and that you loved us all.

The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Suppose you have a village of 100 people. If half of them die at age five, perhaps from such childhood ailments, twenty die at age sixty, and the remaining thirty die at seventy-five, the average life span in the society is thirty-seven, but not a single person actually reached the age of thirty hale and hearty and then suddenly began to senesce.

THE IVY GREEN Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.        Creeping where no life is seen,        A rare old plant is the Ivy green.   Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves.       Creeping where grim death has been,      A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on where time has been,        A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

have loved her more than the light of these eyes that the earth will one day devour, I have not seen her as many as four times; and it is possible that on those four occasions she has not even once noticed that I was looking at her, such is the reserve and seclusion in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up.’ ‘Oho!’ said Sancho. ‘So Lorenzo Corchuelo’s daughter is the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, also known as Aldonza Lorenzo, is she?’ ‘She is,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and she it is who deserves to be the mistress of the entire universe.’ ‘I know her well,’ said Sancho, ‘and let me tell you she pitches a bar as far as the strongest lad in all the village. Good God, she’s a lusty lass all right, hale and hearty, strong as an ox, and any knight errant who has her as his lady now or in the future can count on her to pull him out of the mire! The little baggage, what muscles she’s got on her, and what a voice! Let me tell you she climbed up one day to the top of the church belfry to call to some lads of hers who were in a fallow field of her father’s, and even though they were a good couple of miles off they could hear her just as if they’d been standing at the foot of the tower. And the best thing about her is she isn’t at all priggish, she’s a real courtly lass, enjoys a joke with everyone and turns everything into a good laugh. And now I can say, Sir Knight of the Sorry Face, that not only is it very right and proper for you to get up to your mad tricks for her sake – you’ve got every reason to give way to despair and hang yourself, too, and nobody who knows about it will say you weren’t justified, even if it does send you to the devil.

Every bit of evidence would suggest that the will to be moving is as old as mankind. Take the people in the Old Testament. They were always on the move. First, it's Adam and Eve moving out of Eden. Then it's Cain condemned to be a restless wanderer, Noah drifting on the waters of the Flood, and Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt toward the Promised Land. Some of these figures were out of the Lord's favor and some of them were in it, but all of them were on the move. And as far as the New Testament goes, Our Lord Jesus Christ was what they call a peripatetic--someone who's always going from place to place--whether on foot, on the back of a donkey, or on the wings of angels. But the proof of the will to move is hardly limited to the pages of the Good Book. Any child of ten can tell you that getting-up-and-going is topic number one in the record of man's endeavors. Take that big red book that Billy is always lugging around. It's got twenty-six stories in it that have come down through the ages and almost every one of them is about some man going somewhere. Napoleon heading off on one of his conquests, or King Arthur in search of the Holy Grail. Some of the men in the book are figures from history and some from fancy, but whether real or imagined, almost every one of them is on his way to someplace different from where he started. So, if the will to move is as old as mankind and every child can tell you so, what happens to a man like my father? What switch is flicked in the hallway of his mind that takes the God-given will for motion and transforms it into the will for staying put? It isn't due to a loss of vigor. For the transformation doesn't come when men like my father are growing old and infirm. It comes when they are hale, hearty, and at the peak of their vitality. If you asked them what brought about the change, they will cloak it in the language of virtue. They will tell you that the American Dream is to settle down, raise a family, and make an honest living. They'll speak with pride of their ties to the community through the church and the Rotary and the chamber of commerce, and all other manner of stay-puttery. But maybe, I was thinking as I was driving over the Hudson River, just maybe the will to stay put stems not from a man's virtues but from his vices. After all, aren't gluttony, sloth, and greed all about staying put? Don't they amount to sitting deep in a chair where you can eat more, idle more, and want more? In a way, pride and envy are about staying put too. For just as pride is founded on what you've built up around you, envy is founded on what your neighbor has built across the street. A man's home may be his castle, but the moat, it seems to me, is just as good at keeping people in as it is at keeping people out.

The vibrations of an addict are of a very specific sort—they ricochet, out of control, mostly out of reach. The energy called up by the drug quickly disperses, leaving a void, a nothingness. Nature abhors a vacuum, so negative forces rush in, take up residence. The only immediate relief is more narcotics. It must be horrific. “Come in, come in. I’m Senator Jonathan Huffman. You’re welcome here,” said a man in his late sixties, with a booming, commanding voice. He was hale and hearty, a ruddy glow under an expensive haircut. Dressed in a navy blue jacket over khaki pants, he wore an honest-to-gosh ascot at his throat. He exuded wealth and privilege, innate confidence. And an overanxious need to be liked. He had one arm wrapped around a woman similar in age, who was fragile and birdlike, almost lost in her Nancy Reagan–style bright red ensemble. She nodded at us and smiled. “You’re friends of Oliver’s, I presume?” asked the senator. “Oh, hey, Gregory,” said Oliver with a

Then a hand raised in the distance. I stood, eager to see the face. The crowd parted. Sheriff Jeffries’s broad grin met my gaze. I sat back down on the wooden seat. What would he think of me for leaving the children and traveling on my own to Dallas? My head turned this way and that, seeking escape. Then he stood before me and I had no choice but to acknowledge him. “Imagine meeting you here.” I tapped my foot on the plank beneath my feet. “Great, isn’t it?” He lifted his face to the sky until his neck stretched long. “Amazing what those boys can do.” As I nodded, two men in uniform closed the distance behind him. Two familiar men. My heart seemed to stand still. Arthur. His uniform accentuated his leanness. Had he lost weight since he’d arrived here? Had he been ill and not told me? I searched his face for any signs of weariness, but he looked as hale and hearty as always. I popped up from my seat, my coat and purse filling my hands, my feet stumbling out of the stands until I stood on solid ground. He stopped just beyond my reach. I wanted to throw myself in his arms, but in spite of all my bold actions of the day, I couldn’t quite forget myself to that extent. “Rebekah.” Arthur’s eyes didn’t light on mine. His gaze darted to the ground, the sky, beside me, behind me, refusing to land on anything for more than an instant. I stepped forward. “Arthur, darling.” Sheriff Jeffries’s mouth hung open. And of course his hat twirled around and around and around in his fingers. Arthur glanced at Captain Denton. “Ah. I guess we’d better be going now.” Captain Denton turned to the sheriff. “Let me show you the electric lights that will come on after dark.” Captain Denton dragged the sheriff away—but not before Sheriff Jeffries gave Arthur a long, hard look.

Off you go, then,” Miss Charming said. “Cheerios. I’m staying an extra day to get an eyeball of the new recruits and make sure they know my colonel is taken.” Jane air-kissed her cheek. “This is farewell, then, Lizzy, sister of my bosom.” “They’re real, you know.” Miss Charming placed her hands beneath her breasts and gave them a hearty shaking. “Really?” Jane said, gaping openly. “Oh, yes, real as steel. People always ask, so I thought I’d save you the wondering. As a parting gift.” “Thank you,” Jane said, and she meant it sincerely. It was good to know what was real.

Will working impulsively in velvet-lined ravines under tonight’s harvest moon yield any hearty hale to conciliate the ambitious rumblings of tomorrow?

Describing religious activities and other good deeds, Chanakya says that religious activities, charity/pilgrimage, prayer/ worship and fasting/attending discourses, etc. open the way to heaven. So for cleansing your soul, while you are hale and hearty, you must perform all these activities as per the proper practices, otherwise there will be nothing left after death.

May the best you’ve ever seen “Be the worst you’ll ever see. “May a mouse never leave your pantry “With a teardrop in his eye. “May you always keep hale and hearty “’Til you’re old enough to die. “May you always be just as happy “As your ma and I’d wish you always to be.

A man shall be possessed of florid, youthful blooming health till, it matters not what age — thirty; forty; fifty — then comes some nipping frost, some period of agony, that robs the fibres of the body of their succulence, and the hale and hearty man is counted among the old.

You bet me a certain sum that Aunt Eliza will be hale and hearty still next Christmas, I bet you that she won’t.” The beady eyes were on me, watching…. “Nothing against that, is there? Simple. We have an argument on the subject. I say Aunt E. is lined up for death, you say she isn’t. We draw up a contract and sign it. I give you a date. I say that a fortnight either way from that date Auntie E.’s funeral service will be read. You say it won’t. If you’re right—I pay you. If you’re wrong, you—pay me!

As the castle suggests, war was the natural state of the feudal world. Ambitious lords, especially as population increased and land became scarce, waged war upon one another. Younger sons tried to win new fiefs by the sword, since they could not hope to inherit them, and often fought against their fathers or older brothers. Lords perhaps fought more often against their own vassals, or rather against men whom they claimed as their vassals, than they did with other lords. Vassals were ever quarreling with their lords over the conditions of their vassalage and the services which they were bound to render. In many cases men were unwilling vassals whose fathers had been defeated in war and forced to acknowledge the victor as lord; such men naturally would revolt at the first good opportunity. The whole situation was one of disorderly rivalry where every one was trying to increase his power at the expense of others. There were, however, some mitigating features about feudal warfare. We must remember for one thing that war had been incessant before feudalism and that it has not ceased yet. Then feudal warfare was in the main conducted on a small scale; it was local or neighborhood war and the numbers of men engaged were never very large nor the number killed very great. Their armor protected the knights fairly well, and they were more often captured, imprisoned, and ransomed than they were slain. One reads of bitter strife between lord and vassal or father and son drawn out over many years, and finds both contestants as hale and hearty at the end as they had been at the beginning. The peasants, whose crops were destroyed and homes burned, and who had neither armor nor the prospect of large ransom to protect their lives, were the ones to suffer most from these neighborhood wars and from the ravages of robber knights who got their living largely by plundering raids.

This particular officer, Duret joked, had once been “hale and hearty,” but now he was just “pale and farty,” holed up in the palace

Being hale and hearty is the reward for being safety conscious.

infirm might rest weary bones, but the idea that those who were hale and hearty might sit down during service was a new one, at the time when Lord de Vere arranged for the pews to be carved by the village carpenter and installed some six years earlier. I was familiar with pews from those Oxford churches which had begun the practice, but here some of the older villagers had muttered their disapproval, saying that only by standing and kneeling throughout the service could one show proper respect and piety in God’s house, not by sitting relaxed and idle. However, I noticed now that none of these die-hard traditionalists any longer stood resolutely at the back of the nave, behind

I’m not a witch, you moron.” I was a siren. Most of the time. “Your song broke me.” I eyed him up and down. “Don’t look broken at all to me.” On the contrary, he appeared, hale, hearty, and much too delicious. “I am broken. This. It wouldn’t work.” He did a karate chop that stopped short of his groin.

I should have chosen,” he hissed, “a tall, hale, hearty, and serene woman. One who does not sell herself to the highest bidder, or prattle constant questions with every breath, or play-act as wiser than she truly is!