Authors And Lovers Always Suffer Some Infatuation,

Nothing Is Little To Him That Feels It With Great Sensibility.

Most Men Are Unwilling To Be Taught.

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.

His Death Eclipsed The Gayety Of Nations, And Impoverished The Public Stock Of Harmless Pleasure.

There Are Minds So Impatient Of Inferiority That Their Gratitude Is A Species Of Revenge, And They Return Benefits, Not Because Recompense Is A Pleasure, But Because Obligation Is A Pain.