Luncheon: As Much Food As One's Hand

Here Lies Our Good Edmund, Whose Genius Was Such, We Scarcely Can Praise It Or Blame It Too Much; Who, Born For The Universe, Narrowed His Mind, And To Party Gave Up What Was Meant For Mankind.

At Length Weariness Succeeds To Labor, And The Mind Lies At Ease In The Contemplation Of Her Own Attainments Without Any Desire Of New Conquests Or Excursions. This Is The Age Of Recollection And Narrative; The Opinions Are Settled, And The Avenues Of Apprehension Shut Against Any New Intelligence; The Days That Are To Follow Must Pass In The Inculcation Of Precepts Already Collected, And Assertion Of Tenets Already Received; Nothing Is Henceforward So Odious As Opposition, So Insolent As Doubt, Or So Dangerous As Novelty.

I Remember A Passage In Goldsmith's "vicar Of Wakefield," Which He Was Afterwards Fool Enough To Expunge: "i Do Not Love A Man Who Is Zealous For Nothing.

The King Who Makes War On His Enemies Tenderly Distresses His Subjects Most Cruelly.

Praise, Like Gold And Diamonds, Owes Its Value Only To Its Scarcity.