Promise, Large Promise, Is The Soul Of

Wretched Un-idea'd Girls.

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.

Dishonor Waits On Perfidy. A Man Should Blush To Think A Falsehood; It Is The Crime Of Cowards.

Men Go To Sea, Before They Know The Unhappiness Of That Way Of Life; And When They Have Come To Know It, They Cannot Escape From It, Because It Is Then Too Late To Choose Another Profession; As Indeed Is Generally The Case With Men, When They Have Once Engaged In Any Particular Way Of Life.

No Man Tells His Opinion So Freely As When He Imagines It Received With Implicit Veneration.