All Envy Is Proportionate To Desire.

The Main Of Life Is Composed Of Small Incidents And Petty Occurrences; Of Wishes For Objects Not Remote, And Grief For Disappointments Of No Fatal Consequence.

There Is Not, Perhaps, To A Mind Well Instructed, A More Painful Occurrence, Than The Death Of One We Have Injured Without Reparation.

There Is Scarcely Any Writer Who Has Not Celebrated The Happiness Of Rural Privacy, And Delighted Himself And His Reader With The Melody Of Birds, The Whisper Of Groves, And The Murmur Of Rivulets.

A Successful Author Is Equally In Danger Of The Diminution Of His Fame, Whether He Continues Or Ceases To Write.

The Usual Fortune Of Complaint Is To Excite Contempt More Than Pity.