A Mere Literary Man Is A Dull

A Minute Analysis Of Life At Once Destroys That Splendor Which Dazzles The Imagination. Whatsoever Grandeur Can Display, Or Luxury Enjoy, Is Procured By Offices Of Which The Mind Shrinks From The Contemplation. All The Delicacies Of The Table May Be Traced Back To The Shambles And The Dunghill; All Magnificence Of Building Was Hewn From The Quarry, And All The Pomp Of Ornament Dug From Among The Damps And Darkness Of The Mine.

Money Confounds Subordination.

No Man Can Perform So Little As Not To Have Reason To Congratulate Himself On His Merits, When He Beholds The Multitude That Live In Total Idleness, And Have Never Yet Endeavoured To Be Useful.

All Argument Is Against It; But All Belief Is For It.

It Is Not Possible To Be Regarded With Tenderness, Except By A Few. That Merit Which Gives Greatness And Renown Diffuses Its Influence To A Wide Compass, But Acts Weakly On Every Single Breast; It Is Placed At A Distance From Common Spectators, And Shines Like One Of The Remote Stars, Of Which The Light Reaches Us, But Not The Heat.