Great Men Lose Somewhat Of Their Greatness

The Wise Become As The Unwise In The Enchanted Chambers Of Power, Whose Lamps Make Every Face The Same Colour.

The Very Beautiful Rarely Love At All; Those Precious Images Are Placed Above The Reach Of The Passions: Time Alone Is Permitted To Efface Them.

It Often Comes Into My Head That We May Dream When We Are Dead, But I Am Far From Sure We Do. O That It Were So! Then My Rest Would Be Indeed Among The Blest; I Should For Ever Dream Of You.

We Cannot Conquer Fate And Necessity, Yet We Can Yield To Them In Such A Manner As To Be Greater Than If We Could.

We Are No Longer Happy So Soon As We Wish To Be Happier.