Nothing, Says Longinus, Can Be Great, The

There Is No Passion That Is Not Finely Expressed In Those Parts Of The Inspired Writings Which Are Proper For Divine Songs And Anthems.

The Consciousness Of Being Loved Softens The Keenest Pang Even At The Moment Of Parting; Yea, Even The Eternal Farewell Is Robbed Of Half Of Its Bitterness When Uttered In Accents That Breathe Love To The Last Sigh.

The Intelligence Of Affection Is Carried On By The Eye Only; Good-breeding Has Made The Tongue Falsify The Heart, And Act A Part Of Continued Restraint, While Nature Has Preserved The Eyes To Herself, That She May Not Be Disguised Or Misrepresented.

To Be Perfectly Just Is An Attribute Of The Divine Nature; To Be So To The Utmost Of Our Abilities, Is The Glory Of Man.

One Hope No Sooner Dies In Us But Another Rises Up In Its Stead. We Are Apt To Fancy That We Shall Be Happy And Satisfied If We Possess Ourselves Of Such And Such Particular Enjoyments; But Either By Reason Of Their Emptiness, Or The Natural Inquietude Of The Mind, We Have No Sooner Gained One Point, But We Extend Our Hopes To Another. We Still Find New Inviting Scenes And Landscapes Lying Behind Those Which At A Distance Terminated Our View.