In Bed We Laugh, In Bed We

Every Man, However Hopeless His Pretensions May Appear, Has Some Project By Which He Hopes To Rise To Reputation; Some Art By Which He Imagines That The Attention Of The World Will Be Attracted; Some Quality, Good Or Bad, Which Discriminates Him From The Common Herd Of Mortals, And By Which Others May Be Persuaded To Love, Or Compelled To Fear Him.

As Not Every Instance Of Similitude Can Be Considered As A Proof Of Imitation, So Not Every Imitation Ought To Be Stigmatised As Plagiarism. The Adoption Of A Noble Sentiment, Or The Insertion Of A Borrowed Ornament, May Sometimes Display So Much Judgment As Will Almost Compensate For Invention; And An Inferior Genius May, Without Any Imputation Of Servility, Pursue The Paths Of The Ancients, Provided He Declines To Tread In Their Footsteps.

No Man Sympathizes With The Sorrows Of Vanity.

Condemned To Hope's Delusive Mine, As On We Toil From Day To Day, By Sudden Blasts Or Slow Decline Our Social Comforts Drop Away.

Life Is Barren Enough Surely With All Her Trappings; Let Us Be Therefore Cautious Of How We Strip Her.