“For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.”

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Think not I am what I appear.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.

It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.

We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover – but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

Reason is so unreasonable, that few people can say they are in possession of it.

The lapse of ages changes all things – time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.