I Do Not Wonder That, Where The

He That Shall Peruse The Political Pamphlets Of Any Past Reign Will Wonder Why They Were So Eagerly Read, Or So Loudly Praised.

By The Consultation Of Books, Whether Of Dead Or Living Authors, Many Temptations To Petulance And Opposition, Which Occur In Oral Conferences, Are Avoided. An Author Cannot Obtrude His Service Unasked, Nor Can Be Often Suspected Of Any Malignant Intention To Insult His Readers With His Knowledge Or His Wit. Yet So Prevalent Is The Habit Of Comparing Ourselves With Others, While They Remain Within The Reach Of Our Passions, That Books Are Seldom Read With Complete Impartiality, But By Those From Whom The Writer Is Placed At Such A Distance That His Life Or Death Is Indifferent.

The Return Of My Birthday, If I Remember It, Fills Me With Thoughts Which It Seems To Be The General Care Of Humanity To Escape.

In His Comic Scenes, Shakespeare Seems To Produce, Without Labor, What No Labor Can Improve.

To Tell Your Own Secrets Is Generally Folly, But That Folly Is Without Guilt; To Communicate Those With Which We Are Intrusted Is Always Treachery, And Treachery For The Most Part Combined With Folly.