Pain (n.) is slight if I can bear it, short if I cannot — scorned by the gouty, borne bravely by the girl in travail.
Pain (n.) that is great does not last long — and at death, comfort lies in knowing that after this pain one can feel no more.
Pain (n.) is no reason to die — he who dies just because he is in pain is a weakling, a coward; but he who lives merely to brave out pain is a fool.
Pain (n.) is either bearable or brief: nature has seen to it that nobody can feel acute pain for long.
Pain (n.) at its extreme cancels itself — feel it too much and you are bound to stop feeling it.
Pain (n.) is a small thing until thinking adds to it; call it nothing much and you make it so — we even feel pain the way the crowd tells us to.
Pain (n.) has this most excellent quality: if prolonged it cannot be severe, and if severe it cannot be prolonged.
Pain (n.) comes only from what you feel, and past and future are both absent: we feel neither of them.
Pain (n.) is either endurable or short, for Nature, who loves us most tenderly, made it so: no man can suffer both severely and for a long time.
Pain (n.) felt to excess consoles itself, since you cannot help ceasing to feel it.
Pain (n.) is slight if opinion has added nothing to it.
Pain (n.) is felt even by the brave man, for no human virtue can rid itself of feelings - but he looks down on his sufferings in the spirit of one comforting a sick friend.
Pain (n.) beside virtue counts for nothing: as the sun drowns small lights, it is swallowed up, and makes no more difference than a shower makes to the sea.
Pain (n.) is no reason to die — he who dies because of pain is weak and cowardly — yet he who lives for pain is a fool.