When Once The Forms Of Civility Are

To Live Without Feeling Or Exciting Sympathy, To Be Fortunate Without Adding To The Felicity Of Others, Or Afflicted Without Tasting The Balm Of Pity, Is A State More Gloomy Than Solitude; It Is Not Retreat, But Exclusion From Mankind. Marriage Has Many Pains, But Celibacy Has No Pleasures.

How Is It That We Hear The Loudest Yelps For Liberty Among The Drivers Of Negroes?

Still We Love The Evil We Do, Until We Suffer It.

Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And Winter Of Terror; In Spring The Heart Of Tranquility Dances To The Melody Of The Groves, And The Eye Of Benevolence Sparkles At The Sight Of Happiness And Plenty: In Winter, Compassion Melts At Universal Calamity, And The Tear Of Softness Starts At The Wailing Of Hunger And The Cries Of The Creation In Distress

It Is Indeed Certain, That Whoever Attempts Any Common Topick, Will Find Unexpected Coincidences Of His Thoughts With Those Of Other Writers; Nor Can The Nicest Judgment Always Distinguish Accidental Similitude From Artful Imitation.