Once A Coxcomb, Always A Coxcomb.

To Tell Of Disappointment And Misery, To Thicken The Darkness Of Futurity, And Perplex The Labyrinth Of Uncertainty, Has Been Always A Delicious Employment Of The Poets

The Disturbers Of Our Happiness, In This World, Are Our Desires, Our Griefs, And Our Fears.

No Weakness Of The Human Mind Has More Frequently Incurred Animadversion, Than The Negligence With Which Men Overlook Their Own Faults, However Flagrant, And The Easiness With Which They Pardon Them, However Frequently Repeated.

I Hate Mankind, For I Think Myself One Of The Best Of Them, And I Know How Bad I Am.

A Short Letter To A Distant Friend Is, In My Opinion, An Insult Like That Of A Slight Bow Or Cursory Salutation - A Proof Of Unwillingness To Do Much, Even Where There Is A Necessity Of Doing Something.