With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Half the world does not know how the other half lives.

The whole world is run on bluff.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

The pleasure of Italy comes from living in a world made by man, for man, on man's measurements.

The world is a gambling-table so arranged that all who enter the casino must play and all must lose more or less heavily in the long run, though they win occasionally by the way.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs it a different way,- And the greatest of all is John Bull!

This world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever will think of it.

The world is a great volume, and man the index of that book; even in the body of man, you may turn to the whole world.