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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
— William Wordsworth
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The greatest pride, or the greatest despondency, is the greatest ignorance of one's self.
— Baruch Spinoza
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