If We Commit Any Crime, Or Do

There Is Scarcely Any Fault In Another Which Offends Us More Than Vanity, Though Perhaps There Is None That Really Injures Us So Little.

My Retirement Was Now Become Solitude; The Former Is, I Believe, The Best State For The Mind Of Man, The Latter Almost The Worst. In Complete Solitude, The Eye Wants Objects, The Heart Wants Attachments, The Understanding Wants Reciprocation. The Character Loses Its Tenderness When It Has Nothing To Strengthen It, Its Sweetness When It Has Nothing To Soothe It.

It May Be In Morals As It Is In Optics, The Eye And The Object May Come Too Close To Each Other, To Answer The End Of Vision. There Are Certain Faults Which Press Too Near Our Self-love To Be Even Perceptible To Us.

Anger Is The Common Refuge Of Insignificance. People Who Feel Their Character To Be Slight, Hope To Give It Weight By Inflation: But The Blown Bladder At Its Fullest Distention Is Still Empty.

He Who Has Once Taken To Drink Can Seldom Be Said To Be Guilty Of One Sin Only.