Happiness Is Not Perfected Until It Is

Self-love Leads Men Of Narrow Minds To Measure All Mankind By Their Own Capacity.

When Alexander Had Subdued The World, And Wept That None Were Left To Dispute His Arms, His Tears Were An Involuntary Tribute To A Monarchy That He Knew Not, Man's Empire Over Himself.

However You Disguise Slavery, It Is Slavery Still. Its Chains, Though Wreathed With Roses, Not Only Fasten On The Body But Rivet On The Mind.

The Doubts Of Love Are Never To Be Wholly Overcome; They Grow With Its Various Anxieties, Timidities, And Tenderness, And Are The Very Fruits Of The Reverence In Which The Admired Object Is Beheld.

Yet Happiness Isn't Something You Chase, It's Something You Are. It's Something You Think, It's Something You Believe.