Social Sorrow Loses Half Its Pain.

A Transition From An Author's Book To His Conversation Is Too Often Like An Entrance Into A Large City, After A Distant Prospect. Remotely, We See Nothing But Spires Of Temples And Turrets Of Palaces, And Imagine It The Residence Of Splendour, Grandeur, And Magnificence; But When We Have Passed The Gates, We Find It Perplexed With Narrow Passages, Disgraced With Despicable Cottages, Embarrassed With Obstructions, And Clouded With Smoke.

Invention Is Almost The Only Literary Labour Which Blindness Cannot Obstruct.

Life Is Not Long, And Too Much Of It Must Not Pass In Idle Deliberation How It Shall Be Spent.

Extended Empires Are Like Expanded Gold, Exchanging Solid Strength For Feeble Splendor.

I Look Upon Every Day To Be Lost, In Which I Do Not Make A New Acquaintance.