A man, to be greatly good, must magine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and in many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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No longer now/ He slays the lamb that looks him in the face,/ And horribly devours his mangled flesh;/ Which, still avenging nature's broken law,/ Kindled all putrid humours in his frame,/ All evil passions, and all vain belief,/ Hatred, despair, and loathing in his mind,/ The germs of misery, death, disease, and crime.”
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Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice.
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