The soft whispers of the God in man.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
The weak have remedies, the wise have joys; superior wisdom is superior bliss.