If You Want To Be A Writer,

No Weakness Of The Human Mind Has More Frequently Incurred Animadversion, Than The Negligence With Which Men Overlook Their Own Faults, However Flagrant, And The Easiness With Which They Pardon Them, However Frequently Repeated.

When Once The Forms Of Civility Are Violated, There Remains Little Hope Of Return To Kindness Or Decency.

These Are The Men Who, Without Virtue, Labour, Or Hazard, Are Growing Rich, As Their Country Is Impoverished; They Rejoice, When Obstinacy Or Ambition Adds Another Year To Slaughter And Devastation; And Laugh, From Their Desks, At Bravery And Science, While They Are Adding Figure To Figure, And Cipher To Cipher, Hoping For A New Contract From A New Armament, And Computing The Profits Of A Siege Or Tempest.

Profuseness Is A Cruel And Crafty Demon, That Gradually Involves Her Followers In Dependence And Debt; That Is, Fetters Them With Irons That Enter Into Their Souls.

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.