Where Grief Is Fresh, Any Attempt To

Many Of Our Miseries Are Merely Comparative: We Are Often Made Unhappy, Not By The Presence Of Any Real Evil, But By The Absence Of Some Fictitious Good; Of Something Which Is Not Required By Any Real Want Of Nature, Which Has Not In Itself Any Power Of Gratification, And Which Neither Reason Nor Fancy Would Have Prompted Us To Wish, Did We Not See It In The Possession Of Others.

Man Is A Transitory Being, And His Designs Must Partake Of The Imperfections Their Author.

Every Other Enjoyment Malice May Destroy; Every Other Panegyric Envy May Withhold; But No Human Power Can Deprive The Boaster Of His Own Encomiums.

We Are Told, That The Black Bear Is Innocent; But I Should Not Like To Trust Myself With Him.

Yet It Is Necessary To Hope, Though Hope Should Always Be Deluded, For Hope Itself Is Happiness, And Its Frustrations, However Frequent, Are Yet Less Dreadful Than Its Extinction.