Sorrow Is The Mere Rust Of The

He That Is Much Flattered Soon Learns To Flatter Himself.

To Love Their Country Has Been Considered As Virtue In Men, Whose Love Could Not Be Otherwise Than Blind, Because Their Preference Was Made Without, A Comparison; But It Has Never Been My Fortune To Find, Either In Ancient Or Modern Writers, Any Honourable Mention Of Those, Who Have, With Equal Blindness, Hated Their Country.

To Exact Of Every Man Who Writes That He Should Say Something New, Would Be To Reduce Authors To A Small Number; To Oblige The Most Fertile Genius To Say Only What Is New, Would Be To Contract His Volumes To A Few Pages. Yet, Surely, There Ought To Be Some Bounds To Repetition; Libraries Ought No More To Be Heaped For Ever With The Same Thoughts Differently Expressed, Than With The Same Books Differently Decorated.

The Arguments For Purity Of Life Fail Of Their Due Influence, Not Because They Have Been Considered And Confuted, But Because They Have Been Passed Over Without Consideration.

No Man Hates Him At Whom He Can Laugh.