Much Mischief Is Done In The World

Words Too Familiar, Or Too Remote, Defeat The Purpose Of A Poet.

Then With No Throbs Of Fiery Pain, No Cold Gradations Of Decay, Death Broke At Once The Vital Chain, And Freed His Soul The Nearest Way.

He Who Has So Little Knowledge Of Human Nature As To Seek Happiness By Changing Anything But His Own Disposition Will Waste His Life In Fruitless Efforts.

We Are Easily Shocked By Crimes Which Appear At Once In Their Full Magnitude, But The Gradual Growth Of Our Own Wickedness, Endeared By Interest, And Palliated By All The Artifices Of Self-deceit, Gives Us Time To Form Distinctions In Our Own Favor

Whatever Withdraws Us From The Power Of Our Senses; Whatever Makes The Past, The Distant, Or The Future Predominate Over The Present, Advances Us In The Dignity Of Thinking Beings.