Human Happiness Has Always Its Abatements; The

There Are Some Works Which The Authors Must Consign Unpublished To Posterity, However Uncertain Be The Event, However Hopeless Be The Trust. He That Writes The History Of His Own Times, If He Adhere Steadily To Truth, Will Write That Which His Own Times Will Not Easily Endure. He Must Be Content To Reposite His Book Till All Private Passions Shall Cease, And Love And Hatred Give Way To Curiosity.

All Knowledge Is Of Itself Of Some Value. There Is Nothing So Minute Or Inconsiderable, That I Would Not Rather Know It Than Not. In The Same Manner, All Power, Of Whatever Sort, Is Of Itself Desirable. A Man Would Not Submit To Learn To Hem A Ruffle, Of His Wife, Or His Wife's Maid; But If A Mere Wish Could Attain It, He Would Rather Wish To Be Able To Hem A Ruffle.

Books To Judicious Compilers, Are Useful; To Particular Arts And Professions, They Are Absolutely Necessary; To Men Of Real Science, They Are Tools: But More Are Tools To Them.

I Have Already Enjoyed Too Much; Give Me Something To Desire.

Surely Nothing Is More Reproachful To A Being Endowed With Reason, Than To Resign Its Powers To The Influence Of The Air, And Live In Dependence On The Weather And The Wind, For The Only Blessings Which Nature Has Put Into Our Power, Tranquillity And Benevolence. To Look Up To The Sky For The Nutriment Of Our Bodies, Is The Condition Of Nature; To Call Upon The Sun For Peace And Gaiety, Or Deprecate The Clouds Lest Sorrow Should Overwhelm Us, Is The Cowardice Of Idleness, And The Idolatry Of Folly.