If You Want To Be A Writer,

All Envy Is Proportionate To Desire.

There Is A Certain Race Of Men That Either Imagine It Their Duty, Or Make It Their Amusement, To Hinder The Reception Of Every Work Of Learning Or Genius, Who Stand As Sentinels In The Avenues Of Fame, And Value Themselves Upon Giving Ignorance And Envy The First Notice Of A Prey.

Deign On The Passing World To Turn Thine Eyes, And Pause Awhile From Letters, To Be Wise.

The Art Of The Writer, Like That Of The Player, Is Attained By Slow Degrees. The Power Of Distinguishing And Discriminating Comick Characters, Or Of Filling Tragedy With Poetical Images, Must Be The Gift Of Nature, Which No Instruction Nor Labour Can Supply; But The Art Of Dramatick Disposition, The Contexture Of The Scenes, The Involution Of The Plot, The Expedients Of Suspension, And The Strategems Of Surprise, Are To Be Learned By Practice.

Wine Gives A Man Nothing. It Neither Gives Him Knowledge Nor Wit; It Only Animates A Man, And Enables Him To Bring Out What A Dread Of The Company Has Repressed. It Only Puts In Motion What Had Been Locked Up In Frost.