It Is Still Open For Me, As

There Is Nothing, In Itself, Valuable Or Despicable, Desirable Or Hateful, Beautiful Or Deformed; But That These Attributes Arise From The Particular Constitution And Fabric Of Human Sentiment And Affection.

Methinks I Am Like A Man, Who Having Struck On Many Shoals, And Having Narrowly Escap'd Shipwreck In Passing A Small Frith, Has Yet The Temerity To Put Out To Sea In The Same Leaky Weather-beaten Vessel, And Even Carries His Ambition So Far As To Think Of Compassing The Globe Under These Disadvantageous Circumstances.

The Many Instances Of Forged Miracles, And Prophecies, And Supernatural Events, Which, In All Ages, Have Either Been Detected By Contrary Evidence, Or Which Detect Themselves By Their Absurdity, Prove Sufficiently The Strong Propensity Of Mankind To The Extraordinary And Marvellous, And Ought Reasonably To Begat A Suspicion Against All Relations Of This Kind.

Nothing Is So Improving To The Temper As The Study Of The Beauties Either Of Poetry, Eloquence, Music, Or Painting.

While Newton Seemed To Draw Off The Veil From Some Of The Mysteries Of Nature, He Showed At The Same Time The Imperfections Of The Mechanical Philosophy; And Thereby Restored Her Ultimate Secrets To That Obscurity, In Which They Ever Did And Ever Will Remain.