The Care Of The Critic Should Be

Foppery Is Never Cured; It Is The Bad Stamina Of The Mind, Which, Like Those Of The Body, Are Never Rectified; Once A Coxcomb Always A Coxcomb.

A Man May Be So Much Of Everything That He Is Nothing Of Anything.

No Wonder, Sir, That He Is Vain; A Man Who Is Perpetually Flattered In Every Mode That Can Be Conceived. So Many Bellows Have Blown The Fire, That One Wonders He Is Not By This Time Become A Cinder.

The Great Source Of Pleasure Is Variety.

At Length Weariness Succeeds To Labor, And The Mind Lies At Ease In The Contemplation Of Her Own Attainments Without Any Desire Of New Conquests Or Excursions. This Is The Age Of Recollection And Narrative; The Opinions Are Settled, And The Avenues Of Apprehension Shut Against Any New Intelligence; The Days That Are To Follow Must Pass In The Inculcation Of Precepts Already Collected, And Assertion Of Tenets Already Received; Nothing Is Henceforward So Odious As Opposition, So Insolent As Doubt, Or So Dangerous As Novelty.