Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!