Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

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But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

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Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

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Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

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There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

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Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

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They never fail who die in a great cause.

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There is no instinct like that of the heart.

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