Best 1965 quotes in «horse quotes» category

It is commonly said that a good horse should have fifteen properties and conditions, namely: three of a man, three of a woman, three of a fox, three of a hare and three of an ass: like a man, he should be bold, proud and hardy; like a woman, he should be fair breasted, fair of hair and easy to lie upon; like a fox, he should have a fair tail, short ears and go with a good trot; like a hare, he should have a great eye, a dry head and run well; and like an ass, he should have a big chin, a flat leg and a good hoof.

...it wasn't for the love of a man that she took those chances, but for the love of a horse.

Marie's drunk texts: Marie: Horse, muss yu Marie: Why dont anser? Marie: Horse like yur name. Horsey. I'd like to rid u horsey, LOL. You sleeping? Or busy with someone? Marie: I know yur there. I bet you got a new gurl alredy. Screw you. Marie: Screw you and your slut. I hate you. Take yur club and shove it up yur ass I wudn't be yoor old lady for ten milion dollrs.

McGee’s old touring car had once been green. It had also been painted black, but this had worn thin and you could see the original green coming through on the hood. The fenders were still black. The speedometer said 53,562 miles, but the motor was smooth. McGee drove as though he had a horse in front, saying ‘Giddap’ when he wanted to start and ‘Whoa’ when he was stopping. I was scared he would forget the horse wasn’t there sometime and try to stop by pulling back on the steering-wheel. He didn’t, though.

My dear lady, you cannot afford me, and also, please leave that horse alone. - Magnus Bane, The Midnight Heir (The Bane Chronicles, 4) by Cassandra Clare and Sarah Rees Brennan

I went back to my conversation with Siegfried that morning; we had just about decided that the man with a lot of animals couldn't be expected to feel affection for individuals among them. But those buildings back there were full of John Skipton's animals - he must have hundreds. Yet what made him trail down that hillside every day in all weathers? Why had he filled the last years of those two old horses with peace and beauty? Why had he given them a final ease and comfort which he had withheld from himself? It could only be love.

No mortal ear could have heard the kelpie passing through the night, for the great black hooves of it were as soundless in their stride as feathers falling.

Naturalists tell of a noble race of horses that instinctively open a vein with their teeth, when heated and exhausted by a long course, in order to breathe more freely. I am often tempted to open a vein, to procure for myself everlasting liberty. Cento volte ho impugnato una lama per conficcarmela nel cuore. Si dice di una nobile razza i cavalli,che quando si sentono accaldati e affaticati, si aprono istintivamente una vena, per respirare più liberamente. Spesso anche io vorrei aprirmi una vena che mi desse libertà eterna.

My love is sticky, like glue. I'd kill a horse just to give you some.

:No,: Wareska said at once, :we should go back.: She heard the horse laugh softly into her mind. :Wareska,: he said in amusement, :it is not like you to ever look back.: :I look back when sense dictates.: :It is hard for horses to look back. We don’t really have shoulders. I guess we look back over our butt?:

Returning from his flocks, pleased with his ride. Again in the aul appears the bai. His horse goes on with an easy stride, He sits and smiles upon it, hat awry.

Passion is a Horse Given to Us to Discipline.

Once a month, for one evening, we are free to wear our natural skins. We are on the outside as we are internally.

Once Errol righted himself into some semblance of horsemanship, they set off at an easy canter. That is, the other horses set off at a canter, while Errol's horse settled into a teeth-shattering trot. After a hundred paces he could feel Horace's backbone through the saddle. The other riders pulled ahead without a backward glance, leaving him to his four-footed torture.

She'll never be all the way tame, just the way she's made ... sorta like you, I imagine.

She'll never be all the way tame, just the way she's made ... sorta like you, I imagine." - Cowboy McKennon Kelly ponders Cowgirl in Training Devon Brooke

She simply stared at me with such a loving expression on her face, I felt like I was her foal. Indah reached her head as far as she could around me, to press me to her. I melted. How could I live without this horse? I wrapped my arms around her neck and let my tears flow.

Sir Gallopad, a pure-white horse with a glossy white mane, had been chosen for Darling specifically for his size and demeanor. He was small, shy, and quiet. He'd never thrown anyone from the saddle, had never bucked or kicked. Riding him could be a chore because he liked to stop and nibble on shrubbery. The Charming Committee on Appropriate Pets had been delighted with Sir Gallopad, confident that the princess would be safe with such a timid creature. And they were thrilled to learn that he possessed the magical ability to change colors, which allowed him to camouflage himself if danger should appear. But what the committee didn't know was that, like Darling, Sir Gallopad also had a secret. He loved to gallop!

Some men can be good ' horse whisperers ' and many dogs can be wonderful ' man whisperers '.

So...Rayna and Nico," he said. "From the secon she saw him," I agreed. "They seem good together," Ben said. Then he smiled, adding, "And here I didn't think Rayna was a stable person." "Oooooh." I winced at the bad joke. "What? I'm just horsing around." "Ugh, Ben!" "You're saying I should rein in the humor?

Stallions," Frank said, "they're fightin' over a girl. - DANIEL'S ESPERANZA

The cracks grew over him like vines, faster and faster. At first he bucked, whinnying metallic screeches. Then he gradually stilled, looking up at me with frightened glass eyes. He was growing. New, molten glass leeched out between his fissures, cooled and hardened only to crack again and make room for more liquid glass. The gears inside him moaned and creaked, and metal filings gathered at the base of his transparent stomach, only to fly up again and form more joints and chains and gears. Black smoke poured from his nostrils. Soon he was the size of a large dog, then a man, and still he grew and grew until he towered over my bed, as big as any plow horse I’d ever seen. Glass dripped down his flanks like sweat, a few rivulets still glowing with molten heat.

Roger left the cricket stumps and they went into the drawing room. Grandpapa, at the first suggestion of reading aloud, had disappeared, taking Patch with him. Grandmama had cleared away the tea. She found her spectacles and the book. It was Black Beauty. Grandmama kept no modern children's books, and this made common ground for the three of them. She read the terrible chapter where the stable lad lets Beauty get overheated and gives him a cold drink and does not put on his blanket. The story was suited to the day. Even Roger listened entranced. And Deborah, watching her grandmother's calm face and hearing her careful voice reading the sentences, thought how strange it was that Grandmama could turn herself into Beauty with such ease. She was a horse, suffering there with pneumonia in the stable, being saved by the wise coachman. After the reading, cricket was anticlimax, but Deborah must keep her bargain. She kept thinking of Black Beauty writing the book. It showed how good the story was, Grandmama said, because no child had ever yet questioned the practical side of it, or posed the picture of a horse with a pen in its hoof. "A modern horse would have a typewriter," thought Deborah, and she began to bowl to Roger, smiling to herself as she did so because of the twentieth-century Beauty clacking with both hoofs at a machine. ("The Pool")

So I’m there, surrounded by all these young and old girls who are obviously in season and I don’t know what to do.” The trained psychologist cleared his throat, his brows raised. “Girls… in season?” he questioned dubiously. “Yeah… and they’re all backing up to me and I just know that if I let them fall pregnant the boss’ll kill me, but I’m stuck.” “Umm… what exactly are we talking about?” “My dream: me holding the teaser and all the clients’ expensive mares-” “Oh! So these are horses. Tell me, what’s a teaser?

Some books have too much tennis. Some books have too much baseball. Some books have too much boxing. Some books have too much horse.

Thank you. That was the most fun I've had in a very long time." The horse felt the same way. His life thus far had been such a rocky journey, short on joy and long on sorrow. But as Darling led him toward the shiny Ever After High stables, he knew in his heart that his story had changed. "I hope you don't mind if, on occasion, I ask you to use your camouflage skills." She giggled. "Just so we can have a fun adventure now and then." He nodded. She stopped walking and looked into his eyes. "And, because you're the horse of a princess, I think you should have the perfect knightly name. I shall hereby call you Sir Gallopad." She kissed both his cheeks, then bowed. He smiled and bowed in return. And his story began.

The carriage could only clop along at about ten miles per hour, which only accentuated Imogene’s excitement. She urged it onward: "Fly, horse, fly!

The first time someone calls you a horse you punch him on the nose, the second time someone calls you a horse you call him a jerk but the third time someone calls you a horse, well then perhaps it's time to go shopping for a saddle.

The hour was late, the beauty around him barbarous. The many scents brought by the air were toxic or sweet, depending on which way the gentle breeze blew. Sometimes the scents made his nostrils smart. He allowed them to embrace him. Joys of a wonderful nature arose in his heart. He loved his horse, its easy amble, the seductive night and the prying moon. God created the world, the wild, the horse, the breeze, man, birds and - love, and His consort at times agreed and at others did not. Gods played games. Even Gods played games. They fought too. Name a game that does not involve discord. He smiled at the thought.

The pony is mad. She can go from a relaxed walk to a flat out gallop in seconds if something spooks her, and she won’t stop until she practically crashes into something. I’ve seen her buck, rear and spin around in circles. She’s completely unpredictable and I don’t even trust her on the ground. As far as I’m concerned, Alec’s welcome to her, and he relishes the challenge. For some reason, he loves that pony most of all. Perhaps it’s because no-one else would give her a chance, that they’d written her off as crazy, mean, dangerous. Alec admires her independent spirit, I think, and maybe he likes that she still has that strength of spirit, that she still challenges him every time he rides her. He can’t completely dominate her, and he doesn’t try. He wants a partnership with her. And slowly, slowly, his father is taking that away from him, bullying the mare and his son at the same time, seeking to fit them into the same mould, the only one he knows. The strong succeed while the weak fall behind.

The Prime Minister’s meaning was clear enough: the Fleet Train was the horse, and the fighting Fleet the cart. They must be kept in their proper order. As the size of the horse was fixed, it was pointless to plan an ambitious cart.

The horse does of two things. He does what he thinks he's supposed to do, or he does what he thinks he needs to do to survive.

The horse had a fly-net over its head and ears. It looked down on the paving-stones with the empty disappointed expression of an old moral theologian. Whenever the guide spat between his shoes, the horse shook his head in disapproval.

The only beast a man wants a woman to have between her legs is himself!

There were worse things than death. There would be a leap and a moment suspended, then a long hopeless curve to the rocks and river below. They would fall like leaves between clouds of swifts and then be washed away by the thundering rapids. Bramble clung to that thought. If their bodies washed away then there could be no identification, no danger of reprisals on her family. She hung on tighter. The roan's hindquarters bunched under her and they were in the air. It was like she had imagined: the leap, and then the moment suspended in air that seemed to last forever. Below her the swifts boiled up through the river mist, swerving and swooping, while she and the roan seemed to stay frozen above them. Bramble felt, like a rush of air, the presence of the gods surround her. The shock made her lose her balance and begin to slide sideways. She felt herself falling. With an impossible flick of both legs, the roan shrugged her back onto his shoulders. Then the long curve downward and she braced herself to see the cliffs rushing past as they fell. Time to die. Instead she felt a thumping jolt that flung her from the roan's back and tossed her among the rocks at the cliff's edge on the other side. On the other side. Her sight cleared, although the light still seemed dim. Her hearing came back a little. On the other side of the abyss a jumble of men and hounds were milling, shouting, astonished and very angry. "You can't do that!" one yelled. "It's impossible!" "Well, he shagging did it!" another said. "Can't be impossible!" "Head for the bridge!" Beck shouted. "We can still get him! I want that horse!

The smartest cavaliers at the command 'To horse!' contrive to be in time for both a horse and whores.

:The way to the Seaglass Stair will be long and arduous. There will be those who wish to stop you. They will kill you to keep you from succeeding.: :Why? That’s insane.: :As if insanity were some fabrication, some dark tale Hemfra told you one night when you were a child and refused to sleep. There will always be resistance to anything and everything, defying all logic, all natural sense of self-preservation. There will be those who wish for you to simply let the world fade away. It is the way of humans to be illogical for the sake of personal conviction and made up nonsense.:

They are like men: if bold, the better of scolding; if timid, the better of praise and flattery.

This is Doctor Norton. Who's calling?" "Step N’Wolfe- the owner of the Emerald Cascade Ranch on Green Valley Road. I have a horse in labor and the baby's already coming out of the horse's ass." "You should of called sooner.

Time will come and riding horses will be seen by the whole society as a severe animal rights violation!

When you turn around, you'll see something I bet you've never seen before. If it takes your breath away, then you'll fit in nicely. If you don't feel anything, then maybe you don't belong here.

Who ever thought to put the word "hero" in heroin?

You've got ice between your legs, Meridon. All you ever want there is a horse.

A Beethoven string-quartet is truly, as some one has said, a scraping of horses' tails on cats' bowels, and may be exhaustively described in such terms; but the application of this description in no way precludes the simultaneous applicability of an entirely different description.

There is much we can learn from a friend who happens to be a horse.

This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a horse about politics.

To horses, everyday is a new day to survive. It's a natural instinct. They don't think of the past or the future, only the present. So in terms of trying to teach your horse or build a special bond, patience is the key to every stall's door.

Typically, in politics, more than one horse is owned and managed by the same team in an election. There's always and extra candidate who will slightly mimic the views of their team's opposing horse, to cancel out that person by stealing their votes just so the main horse can win. Elections are puppet shows. Regardless of their rainbow coats and many smiles, the agenda is one and the same.

Was that love? If so, he couldn't fathom why poets waxed on about it being such a blissful state. As far as he could tell, it was about as blissful as riding an unbroke horse, a bone-rattling endeavor where one held on for dear life, unable to recognize if he was making progress until either the horse quit buckin' or the ground smacked him in the face.

Yet when books have been read and reread, it boils down to the horse, his human companion, and what goes on between them.