The Best Part Of Every Author Is

No Man, However Enslaved To His Appetites, Or Hurried By His Passions, Can, While He Preserves His Intellects Unimpaired, Please Himself With Promoting The Corruption Of Others. He Whose Merit Has Enlarged His Influence Would Surely Wish To Exert It For The Benefit Of Mankind. Yet Such Will Be The Effect Of His Reputation, While He Suffers Himself To Indulge In Any Favourite Fault, That They Who Have No Hope To Reach His Excellence Will Catch At His Failings, And His Virtues Will Be Cited To Justify The Copiers Of His Vices.

No Man Can Taste The Fruits Of Autumn While He Is Delighting His Scent With The Flowers Of Spring.

Some Read For Style, And Some For Argument: One Has Little Care About The Sentiment, He Observes Only How It Is Expressed; Another Regards Not The Conclusion, But Is Diligent To Mark How It Is Inferred; They Read For Other Purposes Than The Attainment Of Practical Knowledge; And Are No More Likely To Grow Wise By An Examination Of A Treatise Of Moral Prudence, Than An Architect To Inflame His Devotion By Considering Attentively The Proportions Of A Temple.

Towering Is The Confidence Of Twenty-one.

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.