No Man Who Ever Lived Knows Any

Believe Only Half Of What You See And Nothing That You Hear.

But In The Expression Of The Countenance, Which Was Beaming All Over With Smiles, There Still Lurked (incomprehensible Anomalyl) That Fitful Strain Of Melancholy Which Will Ever Be Found Inseparable From The Perfection Of The Beautiful.

In For Ever Knowing, We Are For Ever Blessed; But To Know All Were The Curse Of A Fiend

There Are Some Secrets Which Do Not Permit Themselves To Be Told.

That Pleasure Which Is At Once The Most Pure, The Most Elevating And The Most Intense, Is Derived, I Maintain, From The Contemplation Of The Beautiful.