Hunger Is Never Delicate.

There Is A Certain Race Of Men That Either Imagine It Their Duty, Or Make It Their Amusement, To Hinder The Reception Of Every Work Of Learning Or Genius, Who Stand As Sentinels In The Avenues Of Fame, And Value Themselves Upon Giving Ignorance And Envy The First Notice Of A Prey.

Suspicion Is Very Often A Useless Pain.

In The Condition Of Men, It Frequently Happens That Grief And Anxiety Lie Hid Under The Golden Robes Of Prosperity; And The Gloom Of Calamity Is Cheered By Secret Radiations Of Hope And Comfort; As In The Works Of Nature, The Bog Is Sometimes Covered With Flowers, And The Mine Concealed In The Barren Crags.

Idleness Is Often Covered By Turbulence And Hurry. He That Neglects His Known Duty And Real Employment Naturally Endeavours To Crowd His Mind With Something That May Bar Out The Remembrance Of His Own Folly, And Does Any Thing But What He Ought To Do With Eager Diligence, That He May Keep Himself In His Own Favour.

An Age That Melts In Unperceiv'd Decay, And Glides In Modest Innocence Away.