So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.
Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.
And all who told it added something new, and all who heard it, made enlargements too.
A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.
Extremes in nature equal ends produce; In man they join to some mysterious use.
Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.
Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.