Luncheon: As Much Food As One's Hand

I Do Not Wonder That, Where The Monastick Life Is Permitted, Every Order Finds Votaries, And Every Monastery Inhabitants. Men Will Submit To Any Rule, By Which They May Be Exempted From The Tyranny Of Caprice And Of Chance. They Are Glad To Supply By External Authority Their Own Want Of Constancy And Resolution, And Court The Government Of Others, When Long Experience Has Convinced Them Of Their Own Inability To Govern Themselves.

There Is Always Something A Woman Will Prefer To The Truth.

He That Travels In Theory Has No Inconveniences.

In A Man's Letters You Know, Madam, His Soul Lies Naked, His Letters Are Only The Mirror Of His Breast, Whatever Passes Within Him Is Shown Undisguised In Its Natural Process. Nothing Is Inverted, Nothing Distorted, You See Systems In Their Elements, You Discover Actions In Their Motives.

The Power, Indeed, Of Every Individual Is Small, And The Consequence Of His Endeavours Imperceptible, In A General Prospect Of The World. Providence Has Given No Man Ability To Do Much, That Something Might Be Left For Every Man To Do. The Business Of Life Is Carried On By A General Co-operation; In Which The Part Of Any Single Man Can Be No More Distinguished, Than The Effect Of A Particular Drop When The Meadows Are Floated By A Summer Shower: Yet Every Drop Increases The Inundation, And Every Hand Adds To The Happiness Or Misery Of Mankind.