O What A Thing Is Age! Death

We Fancy That Our Afflictions Are Sent Us Directly From Above; Sometimes We Think It In Piety And Contrition, But Oftener In Moroseness And Discontent.

There Is Only One Word Of Tenderness We Could Say, Which We Have Not Said Oftentimes Before ; And There Is No Consolation In It. The Happy Never Say, And Never Hear Said, Farewell.

We Listen To Those Whom We Know To Be Of The Same Opinion As Ourselves, And We Call Them Wise For Being Of It; But We Avoid Such As Differ From Us.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.

No Good Writer Was Ever Long Neglected; No Great Man Overlooked By Men Equally Great. Impatience Is A Proof Of Inferior Strength, And A Destroyer Of What Little There May Be.