Slavery Is Now Nowhere More

Many Of Our Miseries Are Merely Comparative: We Are Often Made Unhappy, Not By The Presence Of Any Real Evil, But By The Absence Of Some Fictitious Good; Of Something Which Is Not Required By Any Real Want Of Nature, Which Has Not In Itself Any Power Of Gratification, And Which Neither Reason Nor Fancy Would Have Prompted Us To Wish, Did We Not See It In The Possession Of Others.

The Misery Of Man Proceeds Not From Any Single Crush Of Overwhelming Evil, But From Small Vexations Continually Repeated.

Some Desire Is Necessary To Keep Life In Motion, And He Whose Real Wants Are Supplied Must Admit Those Of Fancy.

Like An Image In A Dream The World Is Troubled By Love, Hatred, And Other Poisons. So Long As The Dream Lasts, The Image Appears To Be Real; But On Awaking It Vanishes.

Labor's Face Is Wrinkled With The Wind, And Swarthy With The Sun.