Turn On The Prudent Ant, Thy Heedful

The Mental Disease Of The Present Generation Is Impatience Of Study, Contempt Of The Great Masters Of Ancient Wisdom, And A Disposition To Rely Wholly Upon Unassisted Genius And Natural Sagacity. The Wits Of These Happy Days Have Discovered A Way To Fame, Which The Dull Caution Of Our Laborious Ancestors Durst Never Attempt; They Cut The Knots Of Sophistry, Which It Was Formerly The Business Of Years To Untie, Solve Difficulties By Sudden Irradiations Of Intelligence, And Comprehend Long Processes Of Argument By Immediate Intuition.

Men, However Distinguished By External Accidents Or Intrinsick Qualities, Have All The Same Wants, The Same Pains, And, As Far As The Senses Are Consulted, The Same Pleasures.

Life Is A Pill Which None Of Us Can Bear To Swallow Without Gilding.

Fate Wings, With Every Wish, The Afflictive Dart, Each Gift Of Nature, And Each Grace Of Art.

We All Live Upon The Hope Of Pleasing Somebody, And The Pleasure Of Pleasing Ought To Be Greatest, And At Last Always Will Be Greatest, When Our Endeavours Are Exerted In Consequence Of Our Duty.