I Have Sent For You That You

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.

The Sense Of Honour Is Of So Fine And Delicate A Nature, That It Is Only To Be Met With In Minds Which Are Naturally Noble, Or In Such As Have Been Cultivated By Good Examples, Or A Refined Education.

Fame Is A Good So Wholly Foreign To Our Natures That We Have No Faculty In The Soul Adapted To It, Nor Any Organ In The Body To Relish It; An Object Of Desire Placed Out Of The Possibility Of Fruition.

Nothing Makes A Woman More Esteemed By The Opposite Sex Than Chastity; Whether It Be That We Always Prize Those Most Who Are Hardest To Come At, Or That Nothing Besides Chastity, With Its Collateral Attendants, Truth, Fidelity, And Constancy, Gives A Man A Property In The Person He Loves, And Consequently Endears Her To Him Above All Things.