The Most Fatal Disease Of Friendship Is

There Is Nothing More Dreadful To An Author Than Neglect; Compared With Which Reproach, Hatred, And Opposition Are Names Of Happiness; Yet This Worst, This Meanest Fate, Every One Who Dares To Write Has Reason To Fear.

That Friendship May Be At Once Fond And Lasting, There Must Not Only Be Equal Virtue On Each Part, But Virtue Of The Same Kind; Not Only The Same End Must Be Proposed, But The Same Means Must Be Approved By Both.

Even Those To Whom Providence Has Allotted Greater Strength Of Understanding, Can Expect Only To Improve A Single Science. In Every Other Part Of Learning, They Must Be Content To Follow Opinions, Which They Are Not Able To Examine; And, Even In That Which They Claim As Peculiarly Their Own, Can Seldom Add More Than Some Small Particle Of Knowledge, To The Hereditary Stock Devolved To Them From Ancient Times, The Collective Labour Of A Thousand Intellects.

The Noblest Prospect Which A Scotchman Ever Sees Is The High Road That Leads Him To England.

As Not Every Instance Of Similitude Can Be Considered As A Proof Of Imitation, So Not Every Imitation Ought To Be Stigmatised As Plagiarism. The Adoption Of A Noble Sentiment, Or The Insertion Of A Borrowed Ornament, May Sometimes Display So Much Judgment As Will Almost Compensate For Invention; And An Inferior Genius May, Without Any Imputation Of Servility, Pursue The Paths Of The Ancients, Provided He Declines To Tread In Their Footsteps.