As A Madman Is Apt To Think

Fate Wings, With Every Wish, The Afflictive Dart, Each Gift Of Nature, And Each Grace Of Art.

The Real Satisfaction Which Praise Can Afford, Is When What Is Repeated Aloud Agrees With The Whispers Of Conscience, By Showing Us That We Have Not Endeavored To Deserve Well In Vain.

I Fancy Mankind May Come, In Time, To Write All Aphoristically, Except In Narrative; Grow Weary Of Preparation, And Connection, And Illustration, And All Those Arts By Which A Big Book Is Made.

Every Man Is, Or Hopes To Be, An Idler.

The Public Pleasures Of Far The Greater Part Of Mankind Are Counterfeit.