this is the title of a book, i read around two years ago. It is an well written book about the various emotions being captured by the authors in literature. The best part of the book was the quotes that the author used to illustrate his points.
Here is one which I can never forget.
“The world that I regard is myslef, it is the microcosm of my own frame that I cast my eye on; for the other, I use it but like my globe and turn it round sometimes for my recreation. Men that look upon my outside, perusing only my condition and fortunes, do err in my Altitude, for I am above Atlas his shoulders. The earth is a point, not only in respect of the Heavens above us, but of that Heavenly and Celestial part within us; that mass of flesh that circumscribes me, limits not my mind; that surface that tells the Heavens it hath an end, cannot persuade me that I have any; I take my circle to be above three hundred and sixty; though the number of the arc do measure my body, it comprehendeth not my mind; whilst I stufy to find how I ama Microcosm or little world, I find myself more than great. There is surely a piece of Divinity in us; something that was before the elements, and owes no homage unto the Sun.”