The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

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

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.