It Seems To Be Remarkable That Death

For Sorrow There Is No Remedy Provided By Nature; It Is Often Occasioned By Accidents Irreparable, And Dwells Upon Objects That Have Lost Or Changed Their Existence; It Requires What It Cannot Hope, That The Laws Of The Universe Should Be Repealed; That The Dead Should Return, Or The Past Should Be Recalled.

It Is Commonly Supposed That The Uniformity Of A Studious Life Affords No Matter For Narration: But The Truth Is, That Of The Most Studious Life A Great Part Passes Without Study. An Author Partakes Of The Common Condition Of Humanity; He Is Born And Married Like Another Man; He Has Hopes And Fears, Expectations And Disappointments, Griefs And Joys, And Friends And Enemies, Like A Courtier Or A Statesman; Nor Can I Conceive Why His Affairs Shuld Not Excite Curiosity As Much As The Whisper Of A Drawing-room, Or The Factions Of A Camp.

Let Him Go Abroad To A Distant Country; Let Him Go To Some Place Where He Is Not Known. Don't Let Him Go To The Devil, Where He Is Known.

He Who Aspires To Be A Serious Wine Drinker Must Drink Claret.

It Is Very Strange, And Very Melancholy, That The Paucity Of Human Pleasures Should Persuade Us Ever To Call Hunting One Of Them.