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Fun I love, but too much fun is of all things the most loathsome. Mirth is better than fun, and happiness is better than mirth.
William Blake
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William Blake
Age: 69 †
Born: 1757
Born: November 28
Died: 1827
Died: August 12
Collector
Engraver
Graphic Artist
Illustrator
Lithographer
Painter
Philosopher
Poet
Printer
Theologian
London
England
W. Blake
Uil'iam Bleik
Blake
Mirth
Fun
Pleasure
Happiness
Better
Much
Things
Love
Loathsome
More quotes by William Blake
To Chloe's breast young Cupid slily stole, But he crept in at Myra's pocket-hole.
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One thought fills immensity.
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In your own bosom you bear your heaven and earth, And all you behold, though it appears without, It is within, in your imagination, Of which this world of mortality is but a shadow.
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Come live, and be merry, and join with me, To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha ha he!
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Embraces are comminglings from the head even to the feet, And not a pompous high priest entering by a secret place.
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Exuberance is beauty.
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All wholesome food is caught without a net or trap.
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A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
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Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
William Blake
The voice of honest indignation is the voice of God.
William Blake
Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world's release.
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Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed.
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I rest not from my great task! | To open the Eternal Worlds, | to open the immortal Eyes of Man | Inwards into the Worlds of Thought | Into eternity, ever expanding | In the Bosom of God, | The Human Imagination
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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But when he has done this, let him not say that he knows better than his master, for he only holds a candle in sunshine.
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O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
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Energy is an eternal delight.
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Each man is haunted until his humanity awakens.
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God appears, and God is Light, to those poor souls who dwell in Night but does a Human Form display to those who dwell in realms of Day.
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The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The indolent never can bring to the mart, Nor the secret hoard up in his treasury.
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