Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.

Contemplation makes a rare turkey cock of him. How he jets under his advanced plumes!

When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Why should we honour those that die upon the field of battle? A man may show as reckless a courage in entering into the abyss of himself.