This Mournful Truth Is Everywhere Confessed, Slow

Reason Will By Degrees Submit To Absurdity, As The Eye Is In Time Accommodated To Darkness.

I Fancy Mankind May Come, In Time, To Write All Aphoristically, Except In Narrative; Grow Weary Of Preparation, And Connection, And Illustration, And All Those Arts By Which A Big Book Is Made.

It Is Incident To Physicians, I Am Afraid, Beyond All Other Men, To Mistake Subsequence For Consequence.

Nay, Madam, When You Are Declaiming, Declaim; And When You Are Calculating, Calculate.

I Will Venture To Say There Is More Learning And Science Within The Circumference Of Ten Miles From Where We Now Sit [in London], Than In All The Rest Of The Kingdom.