This Merriment Of Parsons Is Mighty Offensive.

There Is Nothing Which Has Yet Been Contrived By Man, By Which So Much Happiness Is Produced As By A Good Tavern.

A Man Is Not Obliged Honestly To Answer A Question Which Should Not Properly Be Put.

Condemned To Hope's Delusive Mine, As On We Toil From Day To Day, By Sudden Blasts Or Slow Decline Our Social Comforts Drop Away.

At Length Weariness Succeeds To Labor, And The Mind Lies At Ease In The Contemplation Of Her Own Attainments Without Any Desire Of New Conquests Or Excursions. This Is The Age Of Recollection And Narrative; The Opinions Are Settled, And The Avenues Of Apprehension Shut Against Any New Intelligence; The Days That Are To Follow Must Pass In The Inculcation Of Precepts Already Collected, And Assertion Of Tenets Already Received; Nothing Is Henceforward So Odious As Opposition, So Insolent As Doubt, Or So Dangerous As Novelty.

The Limbs Will Quiver And Move After The Soul Is Gone.