I Am Willing To Love All Of

Few Moments Are More Pleasing Than Those In Which The Mind Is Concerting Measures For A New Undertaking.

Differences, We Know, Are Never So Effectually Laid Asleep As By Some Common Calamity; An Enemy Unites All To Whom He Threatens Danger.

Works Of Imagination Excel By Their Allurement And Delight; By Their Power Of Attracting And Detaining The Attention. That Book Is Good In Vain Which The Reader Throws Away. He Only Is The Master Who Keeps The Mind In Pleasing Captivity; Whose Pages Are Perused With Eagerness, And In Hope Of New Pleasure Are Perused Again; And Whose Conclusion Is Perceived With An Eye Of Sorrow, Such As The Traveller Casts Upon Departing Day.

The Faults Of A Writer Of Acknowledged Excellence Are More Dangerous, Because The Influence Of His Example Is More Extensive; And The Interest Of Learning Requires That They Should Be Discovered And Stigmatized, Before They Have The Sanction Of Antiquity Conferred Upon Them, And Become Precedents Of Indisputable Authority.

There Is No Wisdom In Useless And Hopeless Sorrow, But There Is Something In It So Like Virtue, That He Who Is Wholly Without It Cannot Be Loved.