Wee John Quotes

If this was a dick measuring contest, I found myself thinking numbly, then I was Pee Wee and she was John Holmes.

...but come bad chance And wee joyne to it our strength And wee teach it art and length It selfe o'er us to advance.

Whoa! If I'm gonna be a doorman, I gonna be the mos sabotagin doorman ever guarded a plantation. Ooo-wee. The cotton fiel be burn to the groun before I'm through." Watch out, Jones. Don be getting yourself in no trouble." Whoa!

Look at that. She think I got siphlus and TB and a hard-on and I gonna cut her up with a razor and lif her purse. Ooo-wee.

What poore Elements are our happinesses made off, if Tyme, Tyme which wee can scarce consider to be any thing, be an essential part of our happines?

  And from these corporal nutriments perhaps   Your bodies may at last turn all to Spirit   Improv'd by tract of time, and wingd ascend   Ethereal, as wee, or may at choice   Here or in Heav'nly Paradises dwell;

Busie olde foole, unruly Sunne; Why dost thou thus, Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us? Must to they motions lovers seasons run? Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices, Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride, Call countrey ands to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clyme, Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beames, so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou thinke? I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke, But that I would not lose her sight so long: If her eyes have not blinded thine Looke, and tomorrow late, tell mee, Whether both the India's of spice and Myne Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee. Aske for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay. She'is all States, and all Princes, I, Nothing else is; Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this, All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie, Thou sunne art halfe as happy'as wee, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine ages askes ease, and since thy duties bee To warme the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art every where; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

As long as I live, I will always remember those wee children standing at the railing on that ship." - John Hanlon, the sailor

I love Samui in the wee small hours. I especially love it on nights like this when the white moon stares down from the blackness like the pockmarked eye of a blind god. At such times, when the island’s bright signs have paled to grey and the broom of sleep has swept the revellers to their beds, my mind’s cynical crust cracks open a little, and some fanciful poetry leaks in. Then the dark hills appear to me as slumbering prehistoric leviathans, the clouds assume the air of restless ghosts, and the moon-dusted sea murmurs in some long forgotten tongue of the divine.

There was a small screened-off space in one corner. Will poked his nose into it and saw a bucket. “What’s this for?” he asked. Horace smiled. “It’s a privy,” he said. “In case I need a nervous wee.

As wee now wonder at the blindnesse of our Ancestors, who were not able to discerne such things as seeme plaine and obvious unto us. So will our posterity admire our ignorance in as perspicuous matters.

Uh... is dat een bonte havik?' vroeg Will... 'Nee, dat is geen bonte havik,' zei Halt nors, zonder zelfs even de moeite te nemen te kijken waar Will naar wees. 'En als het er toch een is kan hij de pot op.

Son of Heav'n and Earth, Attend: That thou art happy, owe to God, That thou continu'st such, owe to thyself, That is, to thy obedience; therein stand. This was that caution giv'n thee; be advis'd. God made thee perfect, not immutable; And good he made thee, but to persevere He left it in thy power, ordain'd thy will By nature free, not overrul'd by Fate Inextricable, or strict necessity; Our voluntary service he requires, Not our necessitated, such with him Finds no acceptance, nor can find, for how Can hearts, not free, be tri'd whether they serve Willing or no, who will but what they must By Destiny, and can no other choose? Myself and all th'Angelic Host that stand In sight of God enthron'd, our happy state Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds; On other surety none; freely we serve, Because wee freely love, as in our will To love or not; in this we stand or fall: And some are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n, And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell; O fall From what high state of bliss into what woe! --Archangel Raphael to Adam, Paradise Lost Book V

God hath pronounc’t it death to taste that Tree, The only sign of our obedience left Among so many signes of power and rule Conferrd upon us, and Dominion giv’n Over all other Creatures that possesse Earth, Aire, and Sea. Then let us not think hard One easie prohibition, who enjoy Free leave so large to all things else, and choice Unlimited of manifold delights: But let us ever praise him, and extoll His bountie, following our delightful task To prune these growing Plants, & tend these Flours, Which were it toilsom, yet with thee were sweet. To whom thus Eve repli’d. O thou for whom And from whom I was formd flesh of thy flesh, And without whom am to no end, my Guide And Head, what thou hast said is just and right. For wee to him indeed all praises owe, And daily thanks, I chiefly who enjoy So farr the happier Lot, enjoying thee Preeminent by so much odds, while thou Like consort to thy self canst no where find. That day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awak’t, and found my self repos’d Under a shade on flours, much wondring where And

Most living things are small and easily overlooked. In practical terms, this is not always a bad thing. You might not slumber quite so contentedly if you were aware that your mattress is home to perhaps two million microscopic mites, which come out in the wee hours to sup on your sebaceous oils and feast on all those lovely, crunchy flakes of skin that you shed as you doze and toss. Your pillow alone may be home to forty thousand of them. (To them your head is just one large oily bon-bon.) And don’t think a clean pillowcase will make a difference. To something on the scale of bed mites, the weave of the tightest human fabric looks like ship’s rigging. Indeed, if your pillow is six years old—which is apparently about the average age for a pillow—it has been estimated that one-tenth of its weight will be made up of “sloughed skin, living mites, dead mites and mite dung,” to quote the man who did the measuring, Dr. John Maunder of the British Medical Entomology Center. (But at least they are your mites. Think of what you snuggle up with each time you climb into a motel bed.)‡ These mites have been with us since time immemorial, but they weren’t discovered until 1965.

It is no coincidence that Rudyard Kipling’s first novel, and other books, The Story of the Gadsbys, The Phantom Rickshaw and Other Eerie Tales, and Wee Willie Winkie and Other Stories, In Black and White, et al, were published under Wheeler’s Railway Library Series. The books were illustrated by his father, John Lockwood Kipling. Kipling was not French, but became equally popular. He was sensational in his own way of fancying militarism and hierarchy.

Ook in een tijd van vrede betaal je een prijs om trouw te blijven aan jezelf, om oprecht te leven. Dit heb ik geleerd: hoeveel het ook kost, het is de prijs waard. Je kunt geen oppervlakkig of zinloos leven leiden. Betaal de prijs en wees er trots op dat je dat hebt gedaan, dat is mijn idee.

These are Scottish lassies. They'll have been brought up to believe that Englishmen have long tails and cloven hooves." "I'll be happy to prove there's no tail on this Sassenach," John said, grinning. "Ah, but if they see you without breeches they'll know the other wee rumor about Sassenach men is true. They'd certain not have you then.

When Bill was a fluffy white blob, the lassie rose and started to dry her thick hair, darkened to milky coffee with rain. Lyle struggled not to notice how the brisk movement of her arms jiggled her generous bosom against her thin blouse. He had a liking for small, curvy women. Or at least he did now. After draping his wet, crumpled towel over another chair, Lyle straightened and stared at his adorably disheveled companion. “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?” She lowered the towel from her hair and regarded him with unreadable eyes. To his complete amazement, she dropped into a curtsy. “My name is Flora, sir. I’m a housemaid here.” With difficulty, he stifled a scoffing laugh. His intelligence mustn’t have impressed her. That lie wouldn’t convince the county’s greatest blockhead. Not least because she spoke with a clipped upper-class accent and her hands, while undoubtedly competent, were as smooth and unblemished as any lady’s. “Flora…” he said in a thoughtful voice, studying the wee besom and trying to make sense of this latest twist in their interactions. “Yes, sir,” she said, dropping her gaze with unconvincing humility. What the devil was she playing at, Sir John Warren’s beautiful only child? She’d kept him guessing from the first, which promised interesting times to come. Last week in his London club, her father had offered this girl to Lyle as his bride. Intrigued and faintly annoyed that she judged him daft enough to swallow this twaddle, Lyle decided to allow her enough rope to hang herself. Plastering an ingenuous smile on his face, he stepped closer. “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Flora. My name is Smith. Ebenezer Smith.

O, ze zullen verslagen worden, wees maar niet bang. Het zal een heftige en bloederige strijd worden, maar de Temujai zullen zeker winnen. - Halt, over de Skandiërs

Bond arrives back at his hotel, with his own theme pumping along in the background. It's fun how often the Bond theme is used in the film. He stands up, the Bond theme plays. He walks to the toilet, Bond theme plays, which makes one wonder what music is played when he has a wee.

To be a stranger hath that benefit, Wee can beginnings, but not habits choke.

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.

O how feeble is mans power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot adde another houre, Nor a lost houre recall But come bad chance, And wee joyne to'it our strength, And wee teach it art and length, It selfe o'r us to'advance.

Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay A scourge, 'gainst which wee all forget to pray, He that at sea prayes for more winde, as well Under the poles may begge cold, heat in hell.

Honours oppresse weake spirits, and our sense Strong objects dull; the more, the lesse wee see.

We are all very familiar with the concept of faery queens, whether from Mab, Titania or from Spencer’s famous poem, and British folk tradition gives the strong impression that they are widespread. Other than Oberon, faery kings are rather less frequently mentioned. We hear of an unnamed monarch in the poem King Orfeo, the ‘eldritch king’ of the ballad Sir Cawline, the elf king of Leesom Brand and, finally, the small faery man of the ballad the Wee Wee Man seems to be some sort of faery ruler or noble.113 As mentioned earlier, the sixteenth century Scottish poet Montgomerie wrote of “the King of Pharie with the court of the Elph-quene.’ It’s not apparent whether there is any major significance to his choice of wording, which seems at least to imply that the king is in some manner subservient to his consort.

D’aron the Daring, Derring, Derring-do, stealing base, christened D’aron Little May Davenport, DD to Nana, initials smothered in Southern-fried kisses, dat Wigga D who like Jay Z aw-ite, who’s down, Scots-Irish it is, D’aron because you’re brave says Dad, No, D’aron because you’re daddy’s daddy was David and then there was mines who was named Aaron, Doo-doo after cousin Quint blew thirty-six months in vo-tech on a straight-arm bid and they cruised out to Little Gorge glugging Green Grenades and read three years’ worth of birthday cards, Little Mays when he hit those three homers in the Pee Wee playoff, Dookie according to his aunt Boo (spiteful she was, misery indeed loves company), Mr. Hanky when they discovered he TIVOed ‘Battlestar Galactica,’ Faggot when he hugged John Meer in third grade, Faggot again when he drew hearts on everyone’s Valentine’s Day cards in fourth grade, Dim Dong-Dong when he undressed in the wrong dressing room because he daren’t venture into the dark end of the gym, Philadelphia Freedom when he was caught clicking heels to that song (Tony thought he was clever with that one), Mr. Davenport when he won the school’s debate contest in eighth grade, Faggot again when he won the school’s debate contest in eighth grade, Faggot again more times than he cared to remember, especially the summer he returned from Chicago sporting a new Midwest accent, harder on the vowels and consonants alike, but sociable, played well with others that accent did, Faggot again when he cried at the end of ‘WALL-E,’ Donut Hole when he started to swell in ninth grade, Donut Black Hole when he continued to put on weight in tenth grade (Tony thought he was really clever with that one), Buttercup when they caught him gardening, Hippie when he stopped hunting, Faggot again when he became a vegetarian and started wearing a MEAT IS MURDER pin (Oh yeah, why you craving mine then?), Faggot again when he broke down in class over being called Faggot, Sissy after that, whispered, smothered in sniggers almost hidden, Ron-Ron by the high school debate team coach because he danced like a cross between Morrissey and some fat old black guy (WTF?) in some old-ass show called ‘What’s Happening!!’, Brainiac when he aced the PSATs for his region, Turd Nerd when he hung with Jo-Jo and the Black Bruiser, D’ron Da’ron, D’aron, sweet simple Daron the first few minutes of the first class of the first day of college.

Glad To Be Unhappy" Look at yourself, if you had a sense of humor You would laugh to beat the band Look at yourself, do you still believe the rumor That romance is simply grand? Since you took it right on the chin You have lost that bright toothpaste grin My mental state is all a-jumble I sit around and sadly mumble Fools rush in, so here I am Very glad to be unhappy I can't win, but here I am More than glad to be unhappy Unrequited love's a bore And I've got it pretty bad But for someone you adore It's a pleasure to be sad Like a straying baby lamb With no mammy and no pappy I'm so unhappy But oh, so glad! Writer(s): Richard Rodgers, Lorenz Hart (1955) As performed by Chris Botti & John Mayall, Chris Botti In Boston (2008) Originally performed by Frank Sinatra, In The Wee Small Hours (1955)

THE PUDDOCK A puddock sat by the lochan's brim, An he thought there was never a puddock like him. he sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs, An cockit his heid as he glowered through the seggs. The biggsy wee cratur was feelin that prood, He gapit his mou an he croakit oot lood: 'Gin ye'd a like tae see a richt puddock,' quo he, 'Ye'll never, I'll sweer, get a better nor me. I've femlies an wives an a weel-plenished hame, Wi drink for my thrapple an meat for my wame. The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin chiel, An I ken I'm a rale bonny singer as weel. I'm nae gaun tae blaw, but th' truth I maun tell - I believe I'm the verra McPuddock himsel.'... A heron was hungry an needin tae sup, Sae he nabbit th' puddock an gollupt him up; Syne runkled his feathers: 'A peer thing,' quo he, 'But - puddocks is nae fat they eesed tae be.

Like everyone else, I was always fond of flowers, attracted by their external beauty and purity. Now my eyes wee opened to their inner beauty, all alike revealing glorious traces of the thoughts of God, and leading on and on into the infinite cosmos.

And, like the rest of America, Paradise slept: well past the wee hours, to the break of Sunday dawn. Across the city, across the county, one hundred and eighty-eight thousand lives lay down together in isolated slumber, unconsciously intertwined. And not a one of them ever even saw it coming.

yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God.” “Hmm.” I thought about that for a bit. “You’re right; that’s less poetic, but a bit more … hopeful?” I felt him smile. “I’ve always found it so, aye.” “Where did you get that?” “John Grey lent me a wee book of Donne’s writing, when I was prisoner at Helwater. That was in it.” “A very literate gentleman,” I said, somewhat piqued at this reminder of the substantial chunk of Jamie’s life that John Grey had shared and I had not—but grudgingly glad that he had had a friend through that time of trial.

Thank ye, John,” he said. “I hadna time to say it earlier. I’m verra grateful to ye.” “Thank me? It was hardly my choice. You abducted me at gunpoint.” Jamie smiled; the tension of the last hour had eased, and with it the lines of his face. “Not that. For taking care of Claire, I mean.” “Claire,” he repeated. “Ah. Yes. That.” “Aye, that,” Jamie said patiently, and bent a little to peer at him in concern. “Are ye quite well, John? Ye look a wee bit peaked.” “Peaked,” Grey muttered. His heart was beating very erratically; perhaps it would conveniently stop. He waited for a moment to allow it to do this if it liked, but it went on cheerfully thumping away. No help, then. Jamie was still looking quizzically at him. Best to get it over quickly.

What the devil did ye tell me for, ye wee idiot?” he said under his breath, urging his horse up into a gallop. “What did ye think I’d do?” Just what ye damn well did was the answer. John hadn’t resisted, hadn’t fought back. “Go ahead and kill me,” the wee bugger had said. A fresh spurt of rage curled Jamie’s hands as he imagined all too well doing just that.

Just moo for me,’ Ed said. ‘Maybe a wee Hobnob?’ ‘I only have Rich Tea,’ Myra said. ‘Sorry.’ ‘That’s alright, love.’ To Bob: ‘Cardboard. That’s the sort of biscuits they start dishing out on the lifeboat when they’re done eating the other passengers.