A Quote by John Locke

Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain. — © John Locke
Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain.
Thus parents, by humouring and cockering them when little, corrupt the principles of nature in their children, and wonder afterwards to taste the bitter waters, when they themselves have poison'd the fountain.
I wonder if most people ever ask themselves why love is connected with reproduction. And if they do ask themselves about this, I wonder what answer they give.
I write everything with fountain pens. I don't know why. I've done it since I was bar mitzvahed. I was given a fountain pen, a Parker fountain pen, and I loved it, and I've never liked writing anything with pencils or ball-points.
Cleanse the fountain if you would purify the streams.
Someone asked us later, "Didn't you wonder why no one came across you sooner?" Did I wonder? When you see your parents zipped up in black body bags on the Jellicoe Road like they're some kind of garbage, don't you know? Wonder dies.
Life is fountain of joy; but where the rabble also gather to drink, all wells are poisoned.
I'm a big believer in doing things that make you uncomfortable. So, we live in a world where we want to be as comfortable as we can. And we wonder why we have no growth. We wonder why - when the smallest thing in our life gets difficult - we wonder why we cower and we run away.
That grief is the most durable which flows inward, and buries its streams with its fountain, in the depths of the heart.
From the respect paid to property flow, as from a poisoned fountain, most of the evils and vices which render this world such a dreary scene to the contemplative mind.
The reason why rivers and seas are able to be lords over a hundred mountain streams, is that they know how to keep below them. That is why they are able to reign over all the mountain streams.
Beyond all explanations which a good brain can give, why do we choose the worse and not the better, why hate rather than love, why greed and not generosity, why self-centred activity and not open total action? Why be mean when there are soaring mountains and flashing streams? Why jealousy and not love? Why?
My poems are like a dagger Sprouting flowers from the hilt; My poetry is like a fountain Sprinkling streams of coral water.
In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
I'm not bitter. Why should I be bitter? I'm thrilled to death with life.
From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.
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