The Insolence Of Wealth Will Creep Out.

Was There Ever Yet Anything Written By Mere Man That Was Wished Longer By Its Readers, Excepting Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, And The Pilgrim's Progress?

Hope Is An Amusement Rather Than A Good, And Adapted To None But Very Tranquil Minds.

When A Poet Mentions The Spring, We Know That The Zephyrs Are About To Whisper, That The Groves Are To Recover Their Verdure, The Linnets To Warble Forth Their Notes Of Love, And The Flocks And Herds To Frisk Over Vales Painted With Flowers: Yet, Who Is There So Insensible Of The Beauties Of Nature, So Little Delighted With The Renovation Of The World, As Not To Feel His Heart Bound At The Mention Of The Spring?

It Is True That Of Far The Greater Part Of Things, We Must Content Ourselves With Such Knowledge As Description May Exhibit, Or Analogy Supply; But It Is True Likewise, That These Ideas Are Always Incomplete, And That At Least, Till We Have Compared Them With Realities, We Do Not Know Them To Be Just. As We See More, We Become Possessed Of More Certainties, And Consequently Gain More Principles Of Reasoning, And Found A Wider Base Of Analogy.

Language Is Only The Instrument Of Science, And Words Are But The Signs Of Ideas.