Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

Every Desire Bears Its Death In Its Very Gratification. Curiosity Languishes Under Repeated Stimulants, And Novelties Cease To Excite And Surprise, Until At Length We Cannot Wonder Even At A Miracle.

There Is Certainly Something In Angling That Tends To Produce A Serenity Of The Mind.

My Father Died And Left Me His Blessing And His Business. His Blessing Brought No Money Into My Pocket, And As To His Business, It Soon Deserted Me, For I Was Busy Writing Poetry, And Could Not Attend To Law, And My Clients, Though They Had Great Respect For My Talents, Had No Faith In A Poetical Attorney.

Men Are Always Doomed To Be Duped, Not So Much By The Arts Of The Other As By Their Own Imagination. They Are Always Wooing Goddesses, And Marrying Mere Mortals.

No Man Is So Methodical As A Complete Idler, And None So Scrupulous In Measuring Out His Time As He Whose Time Is Worth Nothing.