On his last return to Naples, Passeri says, "Non fu mai più veduto da buon occhio da quelli Napoletani: e li Pittori lo detestavano perchè egli era ritornato mori con qualche sospetto di veleno, e questo non è inverisimile perchè l'interesso è un perfido tiranno." So that the Neapolitans honoured Genius at Naples by poison, which they might have forgotten had it flourished at Rome.
Memento mori! We don't understand that sublime sentence which some worthy got sculptured on his gravestone once. We've interpreted it in a grovelling and snivelling sense; we've wholly forgotten how to die. But be sure you do die nevertheless. Do your work, and finish it. If you know how to begin, you will know when to end.
In this respect, as well as in the ability with which it is written, it may fairly be classed with the novels of Ruffini, "Lorenzo Benoni" and "Doctor Antonio." To those who have read these two books it need not be said that this is high praise. History is not treated by the author of "Mademoiselle Mori" after the common fashion of novelists.
It formed part of the Fondamenta dei Mori, so called from having been the quarter assigned to Moorish traders in Venice.
But I will tell you something: you are just such a generous, large-hearted, noble, free-handed fool as your father was, and, if you go on the way you have begun, old Diogenes's hoard will go after your father's fortune. Do you know what the two Ms in the palm of your hands signify?" "Memento mori," I said, smilingly. "No. Mind money.
Meta gasped and ran to unlock the door, stood back as the medic and the Second Officer came in, staggering under Ringg's weight. Carefully, they put him into a bunk. The medic straightened, shaking his crest. "Did you get that wrist taken care of, Bartol?" Meta stepped between Bart and the officer, reaching for a roll of bandage. "I'm working on it now, rieko mori," she said.
That disgusting young fool, Mori, only to-day, being jealous of me in some trivial matter, tried to intimidate me by hinting at the V affair. I felt that I could have struck him down where he stood; and then a sense of my own impotence overtook me, and I stood there, silent and confused, trying to laugh the matter off, as though I had not grasped his meaning.
But this, be it understood, is only when the stone is irretrievably beyond memento mori service, and on the clear condition that it is employed in the furtherance of religious work.
Shuttered, silent, abandoned, it stood like a harsh memento mori of human hopes. Dickson had never before been affected by an inanimate thing with so strong a sense of disquiet. He had pictured an old stone tower on a bright headland; he found instead this raw thing among trees. The decadence of the brand-new repels as something against nature, and this new thing was decadent.
Will: there is a tablet in Castlewood Church, in Hampshire, inscribed, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, and announcing that "This marble is placed by a mourning brother, to the memory of the Honourable William Esmond, Esquire, who died in North America, in the service of his King." But how?