Take hope from the heart of man, and you make him a beast of prey.
Fame! it is the flower of a day, that dies when the next sun rises.
A cruel story runs on wheels, and every hand oils the wheels as they run.
It is only to those who have never lived that death ever can seems beautiful.
Coleridge cried; "O God, how glorious it is to live!" Renan asks, "O God, when will it be worth while to live?" In Nature we echo the poet; in the world we echo the thinker.
The art of pleasing is more based on the art of seeming pleased than people think of, and she disarmed the prejudices of her enemies by the unaffected delight she appeared to take in themselves.