Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

It is vain philosophy that supposes more causes than are exactly adequate to explain the phenomena of things.

Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.

Sorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself are often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain. This is the source also of the melancholy which is inseparable from the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.

Of Planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.