Nature Is, After All, The Only Book

Literature Is A Fragment Of A Fragment. Of All That Ever Happened, Or Has Been Said, But A Fraction Has Been Written; And Of This But Little Is Extant.

Few Rash Of Any Modern Nation Have A Proper Sense Of An Aesthetical Whole; They Praise And Blame By Parts; They Are Charmed By Passages. And Who Has Greater Reason To Rejoice In This Than Actors, Since The Stage Is Ever But A Patched And Piecemeal Matter?

Know Thyself? If I Knew Myself I Would Run Away.

Sweet Moonlight, Shining Full And Clear, Why Do You Light My Torture Here? How Often Have You Seen Me Toil, Burning Last Drops Of Midnight Oil. On Books And Papers As I Read, My Friend, Your Mournful Light You Shed. If Only I Could Flee This Den And Walk The Mountain-tops Again, Through Moonlit Meadows Make My Way, In Mountain Caves With Spirits Play - Released From Learning's Musty Cell, Your Healing Dew Would Make Me Well!

Every Offense Is Avenged On Earth.