The Reciprocal Civility Of Authors Is One

Lichfield, England. Swallows Certainly Sleep All Winter. A Number Of Them Conglobulate Together, By Flying Round And Round, And Then All In A Heap Throw Themselves Under Water, And Lye In The Bed Of A River.

Slander Is The Revenge Of A Coward, And Dissimulation Of His Defense.

That The Happiness Of Man May Still Remain Imperfect, As Wants In This Place Are Easily Supplied, New Wants Likewise Are Easily Created; Every Man, In Surveying The Shops Of London, Sees Numberless Instruments And Conveniencies, Of Which, While He Did Not Know Them, He Never Felt The Need; And Yet, When Use Has Made Them Familiar, Wonders How Life Could Be Supported Without Them. Thus It Comes To Pass, That Our Desires Always Increase With Our Possessions; The Knowledge That Something Remains Yet Unenjoyed, Impairs Our Enjoyment Of The Good Before Us.

Self-love Is A Busy Prompter.

A Small Country Town Is Not The Place In Which One Would Choose To Quarrel With A Wife; Every Human Being In Such Places Is A Spy.