O Heart! Love Is Thy Bane And

The Capacity For Passion Is Both Cruel And Divine.

Vanity Is The Most Despotic And Iniquitous Of Masters, And I Can Never Be The Slave Of My Own Vices.

Heavens! Whatever Possesses Us, Here Below, That We Mutually Torment Ourselves, Sourly Reproach Our Mutual Faults, And Mercilessly Condemn All That Is Not Cut According To Our Pattern?

The Masses Are Still Ungrateful Or Ignorant. They Prefer Murder, Poisonings, And Crimes Generally To A Literature Possessed Of Style And Feeling.

Lying, Like License, Has Its Degrees.