Man Makes Up His Mind He Will

A Man Starts Upon A Sudden, Takes Pen, Ink, And Paper, And Without Ever Having Had A Thought Of It Before, Resolves Within Himself He Will Write A Book; He Has No Talent At Writing, But He Wants Fifty Guineas.

I Never Have Wit Until I Am Below Stairs. [fr., Je N'ai Jamais D'esprit Qu'au Bas De L'escalier.]

If This Life Is Unhappy, It Is A Burden To Us, Which It Is Difficult To Bear; If It Is In Every Respect Happy, It Is Dreadful To Be Deprived Of It; So That In Either Case The Result Is The Same, For We Must Exist In Anxiety And Apprehension.

Whatever Is Certain In Death Is Slightly Alleviated By What Is Not So Infallible; The Time When It Shall Happen Is Undefined, But It Is More Or Less Connected With The Infinite, And What We Call Eternity.

When We Are Dead We Are Praised By Those Who Survive Us, Though We Frequently Have No Other Merit Than That Of Being No Longer Alive.