It Is Only Imperfection That Complains Of

Nature Has Laid Out All Her Art In Beautifying The Face; She Has Touched It With Vermilion, Planted In It A Double Row Of Ivory, Made It The Seat Of Smiles And Blushes, Lighted It Up And Enlivened It With The Brightness Of The Eyes, Hung It On Each Side With Curious Organs Of Sense, Given It Airs And Graces That Cannot Be Described, And Surrounded It With Such A Flowing Shade Of Hair As Sets All Its Beauties In The Most Agreeable Light.

One Would Think That The Larger The Company Is In Which We Are Engaged, The Greater Variety Of Thoughts And Subjects Would Be Started Into Discourse; But, Instead Of This We Find That Conversation Is Never So Much Straightened And Confined, As In Numerous Assemblies.

There Is A Sort Of Economy In Providence That One Shall Excel Where Another Is Defective, In Order To Make Men More Useful To Each Other, And Mix Them In Society.

There Is Not A More Pleasante Exercise Of The Mind Than Gratitude.

There Is Not, In My Opinion, Anything More Mysterious In Nature Than This Instinct In Animals, Which Thus Rise Above Reason, And Yet Fall Infinitely Short Of It.