There Is Not, Perhaps, To A Mind

I Have Always Considered It As Treason Against The Great Republic Of Human Nature, To Make Any Man's Virtues The Means Of Deceiving Him.

The Irish Are A Fair People: They Never Speak Well Of One Another.

Avarice Is A Uniform And Tractable Vice; Other Intellectual Distempers Are Different In Different Constitutions Of Mind. That Which Soothes The Pride Of One Will Offend The Pride Of Another, But To The Favor Of The Covetous Bring Money, And Nothing Is Denied.

Sorrow Is A Kind Of Rust Of The Soul, Which Every New Idea Contributes In Its Passage To Scour Away. It Is The Putrefaction Of Stagnant Life, And Is Remedied By Exercise And Motion.

It Is Not The Desire Of New Acquisitions, But The Glory Of Conquests, That Fires The Soldier's Breast; As Indeed The Town Is Seldom Worth Much, When It Has Suffered The Devastations Of A Siege.