If A Man Could Say Nothing Against

Had I Learned To Fiddle, I Should Have Done Nothing Else.

No Man Is A Hypocrite In His Pleasures.

The Number Of Such As Live Without The Ardour Of Inquiry Is Very Small, Though Many Content Themselves With Cheap Amusements, And Waste Their Lives In Researches Of No Importance.

Enlarge My Life With Multitude Of Days, In Health, In Sickness, Thus The Suppliant Prays; Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know, That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe. Time Hovers O'er, Impatient To Destroy, And Shuts Up All The Passages Of Joy.

Modern Writers Are The Moons Of Literature; They Shine With Reflected Light, With Light Borrowed From The Ancients.