To say she is only a woman is to say a violin is a piece of wood with strings, and Dante is mere ink printed on paper.

— Bruce Crown

What infinite heart's-ease Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy! And what have kings, that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshipers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings in? O ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give the cure! Think'st thou the fiery fever will go outwith titles blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexor and low bending? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose;I am a king that find thee, and I know'Ti's not the balm, the scepter and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The forced title running 'for the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestic, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill'd and vacant midgets him to rest, cram'd with distressful bread;Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn, Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever-running year, With profitable labor, to his grave:And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the forehand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little somewhat watch the king keeps maintaining the peace, Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

— William Shakespeare

You haven't lived until you've basked in the adoration of people.

— Jerry Spinelli