A True Critic Ought To Dwell Upon

Mirth Is Like A Flash Of Lightning, That Breaks Through A Gloom Of Clouds, And Glitters For A Moment; Cheerfulness Keeps Up A Kind Of Daylight In The Mind, And Fills It With A Steady And Perpetual Serenity.

Nothing Lies On Our Hands With Such Uneasiness As Time. Wretched And Thoughtless Creatures! In The Only Place Where Covetousness Were A Virtue We Turn Prodigals.

Beauty Soon Grows Familiar To The Lover, Fades In His Eye, And Palls Upon The Sense.

Hypocrisy Itself Does Great Honor, Or Rather Justice, To Religion, And Tacitly Acknowledges It To Be An Ornament To Human Nature. The Hypocrite Would Not Be At So Much Pains To Put On The Appearance Of Virtue, If He Did Not Know It Was The Most Proper And Effectual Means To Gain The Love And Esteem Of Mankind.

With What Astonishment And Veneration May We Look Into Our Own Souls, Where There Are Such Hidden Stores Of Virtue And Knowledge, Such Inexhaustible Sources Of Perfection. We Know Not Yet What We Shall Be, Nor Will It Ever Enter Into The Heart To Conceive The Glory That Will Be Always In Reserve For It.