How Small Of All That Human Hearts

He Was Dull In A New Way, And That Made Many Think Him Great.

The Task Of An Author Is, Either To Teach What Is Not Known, Or To Recommend Known Truths By His Manner Of Adorning Them; Either To Let New Light In Upon The Mind, And Open New Scenes To The Prospect, Or To Vary The Dress And Situation Of Common Objects, So As To Give Them Fresh Grace And More Powerful Attractions, To Spread Such Flowers Over The Regions Through Which The Intellect Has Already Made Its Progress, As May Tempt It To Return, And Take A Second View Of Things Hastily Passed Over, Or Negligently Regarded.

A Continual Feast Of Commendation Is Only To Be Obtained By Merit Or By Wealth: Many Are Therefore Obliged To Content Themselves With Single Morsels, And Recompense The Infrequency Of Their Enjoyment By Excess And Riot, Whenever Fortune Sets The Banquet Before Them.

Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And Winter Of Terror; In Spring The Heart Of Tranquility Dances To The Melody Of The Groves, And The Eye Of Benevolence Sparkles At The Sight Of Happiness And Plenty: In Winter, Compassion Melts At Universal Calamity, And The Tear Of Softness Starts At The Wailing Of Hunger And The Cries Of The Creation In Distress

Such Is The Emptiness Of Human Enjoyment That We Are Always Impatient Of The Present. Attainment Is Followed By Neglect, And Possession By Disgust.