Long Customs Are Not Easily Broken; He

Such Is The Emptiness Of Human Enjoyment That We Are Always Impatient Of The Present. Attainment Is Followed By Neglect, And Possession By Disgust.

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.

Wheresoe'er I Turn My View, All Is Strange, Yet Nothing New: Endless Labor All Along, Endless Labor To Be Wrong: Phrase That Time Has Flung Away; Uncouth Words In Disarray, Trick'd In Antique Ruff And Bonnet, Ode, And Elegy, And Sonnet.

For Life Affords No Higher Pleasure, Than That Of Surmounting Difficulties, Passing From One Step Of Success To Another, Forming New Wishes And Seeing Them Gratified. He That Labours In Any Great Or Laudable Undertaking, Has His Fatigues First Supported By Hope, And Afterwards Rewarded By Joy... To Strive With Difficulties, And To Conquer Them, Is The Highest Human Felicity.

Life Is Short. The Sooner That A Man Begins To Enjoy His Wealth The Better.