Tomorrow Is An Old Deceiver, And His

No Money Is Better Spent Than What Is Laid Out For Domestic Satisfaction. A Man Is Pleased That His Wife Is Dressed As Well As Other People, And The Wife Is Pleased That She Is Dressed.

There Are Some Works Which The Authors Must Consign Unpublished To Posterity, However Uncertain Be The Event, However Hopeless Be The Trust. He That Writes The History Of His Own Times, If He Adhere Steadily To Truth, Will Write That Which His Own Times Will Not Easily Endure. He Must Be Content To Reposite His Book Till All Private Passions Shall Cease, And Love And Hatred Give Way To Curiosity.

Disease Generally Begins That Equality Which Death Completes; The Distinctions Which Set One Man So Much Above Another Are Very Little Perceived In The Gloom Of A Sick Chamber, Where It Will Be Vain To Expect Entertainment From The Gay, Or Instruction From The Wise; Where All Human Glory Is Obliterated, The Wit Is Clouded, The Reasoner Perplexed, And The Hero Subdued; Where The Highest And Brightest Of Mortal Beings Finds Nothing Left Him But The Consciousness Of Innocence.

Every Man May Be Observed To Have A Certain Strain Of Lamentation, Some Peculiar Theme Of Complaint On Which He Dwells In His Moments Of Dejection.

Whoever Envies Another Confesses His Superiority.