Nothing Is Capable Of Being Well Set

Irresolution On The Schemes Of Life Which Offer Themselves To Our Choice, And Inconstancy In Pursuing Them, Are The Greatest Causes Of All Our Unhappiness.

The Soul, Considered With Its Creator, Is Like One Of Those Mathematical Lines That May Draw Nearer To Another For All Eternity Without A Possibility Of Touching It; And Can There Be A Thought So Transporting As To Consider Ourselves In These Perpetual Approaches To Him, Who Is Not Only The Standard Of Perfection, But Of Happiness?

A Satire Should Expose Nothing But What Is Corrigible, And Should Make A Due Discrimination Between Those That Are And Those That Are Not The Proper Objects Of It.

In England We See People Lulled Sleep With Solid And Elaborate Discourses Of Piety, Who Would Be Warmed And Transported Out Of Themselves By The Bellowings And Distortions Of Enthusiasm.

Beauty Commonly Produces Love, But Cleanliness Preserves It. Age Itself Is Not Unamiable While It Is Preserved Clean And Unsullied; Like A Piece Of Metal Constantly Kept Smooth And Bright, We Look On It With More Pleasure Than On A New Vessel Cankered With Rust.