Few Men Have Been Admired Of Their

Ignorance Is The Softest Pillow On Which A Man Can Rest His Head.

Even From Their Infancy We Frame Them To The Sports Of Love: Their Instruction, Behavior, Attire, Grace, Learning And All Their Words Azimuth Only At Love, Respects Only Affection. Their Nurses And Their Keepers Imprint No Other Thing In Them.

It Makes Me Hate Accepting Things That Are Probable When They Are Held Up Before Me As Infallibly True. I Prefer These Words Which Tone Down And Modify The Hastiness Of Our Propositions: "perhaps, In Some Sort, Some, They Say, I Think," And The Like.

There Is No Pleasure To Me Without Communication: There Is Not So Much As A Sprightly Thought Comes Into My Mind That It Does Not Grieve Me To Have Produced Alone, And That I Have No One To Tell It To.

The Great And Glorious Masterpiece Of Men Is To Live To The Point. All Other Things-to Reign, To Hoard, To Build-are, At Most, But Inconsiderable Props And Appendages.