The Whole Art Of Living Consists In

Pity On The Person Who Has Become Accustomed To Seeing In Necessity Something Arbitrary, Who Ascribes To The Arbitrary Some Sort Of Reason, And Even Claims That Following That Sort Of Reason Has Religious Value.

Music, In The Best Sense, Does Not Require Novelty; Nay, The Older It Is, And The More We Are Accustomed To It, The Greater Its Effect.

Thou Tremblest Before Anticipated Ills, And Still Bemoanest What Thou Never Losest.

The Sea Is Flowing Ever, The Land Retains It Never.

None Are More Hopelessly Enslaved Than Those Who Falsely Believe They Are Free.