Hope, Like The Gleaming Taper

Quality And Title Have Such Allurements That Hundreds Are Ready To Give Up All Their Own Importance, To Cringe, To Flatter, To Look Little, And To Pall Every Pleasure In Constraint, Merely To Be Among The Great, Though Without The Least Hopes Of Improving Their Understanding Or Sharing Their Generosity. They Might Be Happier Among Their Equals.

A French Woman Is A Perfect Architect In Dress: She Never, With Gothic Ignorance, Mixes The Orders; She Never Tricks Out A Snobby Doric Shape With Corinthian Finery; Or, To Speak Without Metaphor, She Conforms To General Fashion Only When It Happens Not To Be Repugnant To Private Beauty.

Taste Is The Power Of Relishing Or Rejecting Whatever Is Offered For The Entertainment Of The Imagination.

Near Yonder Thorn, That Lifts Its Head On High, Where Once The Sign-post Caught The Passing Eye, Low Lies That House Where Nut-brown Draughts Inspired, Where Graybeard Mirth And Smiling Toil Retired, Where Village Statesmen Talk'd With Looks Profound, And News Much Older Than Their Ale Went Round.

Age, That Lessens The Enjoyment Of Life, Increases Our Desire Of Living