I Strove With None, For None Was

I Strove With None; For None Was Worth My Strife.

In The Hours Of Distress And Misery, The Eyes Of Every Mortal Turn To Friendship; In The Hours Of Gladness And Conviviality, What Is Our Want? It Is Friendship. When The Heart Overflows With Gratitude, Or With Any Other Sweet Or Sacred Sentiment, What Is The Word To Which It Would Give Utterance? A Friend.

Goodness Does Not More Certainly Make Men Happy Than Happiness Makes Them Good.

Why Cannot We Be Delighted With An Author, And Even Feel A Predilection For Him, Without A Dislike Of Others? An Admiration Of Catullus Or Virgil, Of Tibullus Or Ovid, Is Never To Be Heightened By A Discharge Of Bile On Horace.

Avoid, Which Many Grave Men Have Not Done, Words Taken From Sacred Subjects And From Elevated Poetry: These We Have Seen Vilely Prostituted. Avoid Too The Society Of The Barbarians Who Misemploy Them.