The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By

Nothing Flatters A Man As Much As The Happiness Of His Wife; He Is Always Proud Of Himself As The Source Of It.

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.

To Write Is, Indeed, No Unpleasing Employment, When One Sentiment Readily Produces Another, And Both Ideas And Expressions Present Themselves At The First Summons; But Such Happiness, The Greatest Genius Does Not Always Obtain; And Common Writers Know It Only To Such A Degree, As To Credit Its Possibility. Composition Is, For The Most Part, An Effort Of Slow Diligence And Steady Perseverance, To Which The Mind Is Dragged By Necessity Or Resolution, And From Which The Attention Is Every Moment Starting To More Delightful Amusements.

Those Who Have Past Much Of Their Lives In This Great City, Look Upon Its Opulence And Its Multitudes, Its Extent And Variety, With Cold Indifference; But An Inhabitant Of The Remoter Parts Of The Kingdom Is Immediately Distinguished By A Kind Of Dissipated Curiosity, A Busy Endeavour To Divide His Attention Amongst A Thousand Objects, And A Wild Confusion Of Astonishment And Alarm.

Care That Is Once Enter'd Into The Breast Will Have The Whole Possession Ere It Rest.