A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. They who inspire is most are fortunate, As I am now: but those who feel it most Are happier still.
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All of us, who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
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Change is certain. Peace is followed by disturbances; departure of evil men by their return. Such recurrences should not constitute occasions for sadness but realities for awareness, so that one may be happy in the interim.
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Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
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Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, all that vain men imagine or believe, or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, we descanted.
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Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.
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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.
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He has outsoared the shadow of our night; envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again; from the contagion of the world's slow stain, he is secure.
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History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
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How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.
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I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.
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In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred; it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.
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It is impossible that had Buonaparte descended from a race of vegetable feeders that he could have had either the inclination or the power to ascend the throne of the Bourbons.
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps - but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, - but it returneth.
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Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.
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Man's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
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Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
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Nought may endure but Mutability.
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - he hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep with phantoms an unprofitable strife.
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Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
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Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, - a people starved and stabbed in the untilled field...
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Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
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The Galilean is not a favorite of mine. So far from owing him any thanks for his favor, I cannot avoid confessing that I owe a secret grudge to his carpentership.
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The gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
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The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
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There is no real wealth but the labor of man.
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To be omnipotent but friendless is to reign.
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When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid - in which case all comment is superfluous - or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
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