I Consider Time As An In Immense

One Hope No Sooner Dies In Us But Another Rises Up In Its Stead. We Are Apt To Fancy That We Shall Be Happy And Satisfied If We Possess Ourselves Of Such And Such Particular Enjoyments; But Either By Reason Of Their Emptiness, Or The Natural Inquietude Of The Mind, We Have No Sooner Gained One Point, But We Extend Our Hopes To Another. We Still Find New Inviting Scenes And Landscapes Lying Behind Those Which At A Distance Terminated Our View.

There Is Nothing That Makes Its Way More Directly Into The Soul Than Beauty.

In The Loss Of An Object We Do Not Proportion Our Grief To The Real Value It Bears, But To The Value Our Fancies Set Upon It.

Nothing, Says Longinus, Can Be Great, The Contempt Of Which Is Great.

Waning Moons Their Settled Periods Keep, To Swell The Billows And Ferment The Deep.