We climb to heaven most often on the ruins of our cherished plans, finding our failures were successes.
Heaven trims our lamps while we sleep.
Would Shakespeare and Raleigh have done their best, would that galaxy have shone so bright in the heavens had there been no Elizabeth on the throne?
Love is the key to felicity, nor is there a heaven to any who love not. We enter Paradise through its gates only.
Good-humor, gay spirits, are the liberators, the sure cure for spleen and melancholy. Deeper than tears, these irradiate the tophets with their glad heavens. Go laugh, vent the pits, transmuting imps into angels by the alchemy of smiles. The satans flee at the sight of these redeemers.
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