Those Who Restrain Their Desires, Do So

The Crow Wished Everything Was Black, The Owl, That Everything Was White.

There Is A Smile Of Love, And There Is A Smile Of Deceit, And There Is A Smile Of Smiles In Which These Two Smiles Meet.

Acts Themselves Alone Are History, And These Are Neither The Exclusive Property Of Hume, Gibbon Nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, Nor Herodotus. Tell Me The Acts, O Historian, And Leave Me To Reason Upon Them As I Please; Away With Your Reasoning And Your Rubbish. All That Is Not Action Is Not Worth Reading.

Gratitude, In Itself, Is Heaven.

I Have Conversed With The Spiritual Sun. I Saw Him On Primrose Hill