The Worst Evils Are Those That Never

A Successful Author Is Equally In Danger Of The Diminution Of His Fame, Whether He Continues Or Ceases To Write. The Regard Of The Public Is Not To Be Kept But By Tribute, And The Remembrance Of Past Service Will Quickly Languish Unless Successive Performances Frequently Revive It. Yet In Every New Attempt There Is New Hazard, And There Are Few Who Do Not, At Some Unlucky Time, Injure Their Own Characters By Attempting To Enlarge Them.

Every Man Speaks And Writes With Intent To Be Understood; And It Can Seldom Happen But He That Understands Himself, Might Convey His Notions To Another, If, Content To Be Understood, He Did Not Seek To Be Admired; But When Once He Begins To Contrive How His Sentiments May Be Received, Not With Most Ease To His Reader, But With Most Advantage To Himself, He Then Transfers His Consideration From Words To Sounds, From Sentences To Periods, And, As He Grows More Elegant, Becomes Less Intelligible.

All Envy Would Be Extinguished, If It Were Universally Known That There Are None To Be Envied.

There Seems To Be A Strange Affectation In Authors Of Appearing To Have Done Everything By Chance.

New Arts Are Long In The World Before Poets Describe Them; For They Borrow Everything From Their Predecessors, And Commonly Derive Very Little From Nature Or From Life.