I Have Often Reflected Within Myself On

The World Is So Full Of Ill-nature That I Have Lampoons Sent Me By People Who Cannot Spell, And Satires Composed By Those Who Scarce Know How To Write.

There Is A Kind Of Grandeur And Respect Which The Meanest And Most Insignificant Part Of Mankind Endeavor To Procure In The Little Circle Of Their Friends And Acquaintance. The Poorest Mechanic, Nay, The Man Who Lives Upon Common Alms, Gets Him His Set Of Admirers, And Delights In That Superiority Which He Enjoys Over Those Who Are In Some Respects Beneath Him. This Ambition, Which Is Natural To The Soul Of Man, Might, Methinks, Receive A Very Happy Turn; And, If It Were Rightly Directed, Contribute As Much To A Person's Advantage, As It Generally Does To His Uneasiness And Disquiet.

Persons In Great Stations Have Seldom Their True Character Drawn Till Several Years After Their Death. Their Personal Friendships And Enmities Must Cease, And The Parties They Were Engaged In Be At An End, Before Their Faults Or Their Virtues Can Have Justice Done Them. When Writers Have The Least Opportunities Of Knowing The Truth, They Are In The Best Disposition To Tell It.

The Mind That Lies Fallow But A Single Day, Sprouts Up In Follies That Are Only To Be Killed By A Constant And Assiduous Culture.

A State Of Temperance, Sobriety And Justice Without Devotion Is A Cold, Lifeless, Insipid Condition Of Virtue, And Is Rather To Be Styled Philosophy Than Religion.