I Live In The Crowd

Genius Now And Then Produces A Lucky Trifle. We Still Read The Dove Of Anacreon, And Sparrow Of Catullus; And A Writer Naturally Pleases Himself With A Performance Which Owes Nothing To The Subject.

No Man Can Fall Into Contempt But Those Who Deserve It.

Such Is The State Of Life, That None Are Happy But By The Anticipation Of Change: The Change Itself Is Nothing; When We Have Made It, The Next Wish Is To Change Again.

There Is Not, Perhaps, To A Mind Well Instructed, A More Painful Occurrence, Than The Death Of One We Have Injured Without Reparation.

Music Is The Only Sensual Pleasure Without Vice.