I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness.
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal. Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood by all, but which the wise, and great, and good interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
I wish no living thing to suffer pain.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night; envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again; from the contagion of the world’s slow stain, he is secure.
The Galilean is not a favorite of mine. So far from owing him any thanks for his favor, I cannot avoid confessing that I owe a secret grudge to his carpentership.
The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.
If a person’s religious ideas correspond not with your own, love him nevertheless.
It is impossible that had Buonaparte descended from a race of vegetable feeders that he could have had either the inclination or the power to ascend the throne of the Bourbons.
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
It is true that the reluctance to abstain from animal food, in those who have been long accustomed to its stimulus, is so great in some persons of weak minds, as to be scarcely overcome; but this is far from bringing any argument in its favour.
Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong: They learn in suffering what they teach in song.
Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil.
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet.
A system could not well have been devised more studiously hostile to human happiness than marriage.
There is a harmony In autumn, and a luster in its sky...
Chastity is a monkish and evangelical superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance even than unintellectual sensuality; it strikes at the root of all domestic happiness, and consigns more than half of the human race to misery.
His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.