They Who Most Loudly Clamour For Liberty

Life Is Surely Given Us For Higher Purposes Than To Gather What Our Ancestors Have Wisely Thrown Away, And To Learn What Is Of No Value But Because It Has Been Forgotten.

Praise, Like Gold And Diamonds, Owes Its Value Only To Its Scarcity.

That Distrust Which Intrudes So Often On Your Mind Is A Mode Of Melancholy, Which, If It Be The Business Of A Wise Man To Be Happy, It Is Foolish To Indulge; And If It Be A Duty To Preserve Our Faculties Entire For Their Proper Use, It Is Criminal. Suspicion Is Very Often An Useless Pain.

Nothing Detains The Reader's Attention More Powerfully Than Deep Involutions Of Distress, Or Sudden Vicissitudes Of Fortune; And These Might Be Abundantly Afforded By Memoirs Of The Sons Of Literature. They Are Entangled By Contracts Which They Know Not How To Fulfill, And Obliged To Write On Subjects Which They Do Not Understand. Every Publication Is A New Period Of Time, From Which Some Increase Or Declension Of Fame Is To Be Reckoned. The Gradations Of A Hero's Life Are From Battle To Battle, And Of An Author's From Book To Book.

Our Desires Always Increase With Our Possessions. The Knowledge That Something Remains Yet Unenjoyed Impairs Our Enjoyment Of The Good Before Us.