Contempt Is A Kind Of Gangrene Which,

Every Man Thinks Meanly Of Himself For Not Having Been A Soldier, Or Not Having Been At Sea.

Enlarge My Life With Multitude Of Days, In Health, In Sickness, Thus The Suppliant Prays; Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know, That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe. Time Hovers O'er, Impatient To Destroy, And Shuts Up All The Passages Of Joy.

False Taste Is Always Busy To Mislead Those That Are Entering Upon The Regions Of Learning; And The Traveller, Uncertain Of His Way, And Forsaken By The Sun, Will Be Pleased To See A Fainter Orb Arise On The Horizon, That May Rescue Him From Total Darkness, Though With Weak And Borrowed Lustre.

Thought Is Always Troublesome To Him Who Lives Without His Own Approbation.

I Should As Soon Think Of Contradicting A Bishop