Though Very Poor, May Still Be Very

As For Disappointing Them I Should Not So Much Mind; But I Can't Abide To Disappoint Myself.

The Folly Of Others Is Ever Most Ridiculous To Those Who Are Themselves Most Foolish.

What If In Scotland's Wilds We Viel'd Our Head, Where Tempests Whistle Round The Sordid Bed; Where The Rug's Two-fold Use We Might Display, By Night A Blanket, And A Plaid By Day.

One Man Is Born With A Silver Spoon In His Mouth, And The Other With A Wooden Ladle.

Titles And Mottoes To Books Are Like Escutcheons And Dignities In The Hands Of A King. The Wise Sometimes Condescend To Accept Of Them; But None But A Fool Would Imagine Them Of Any Real Importance. We Ought To Depend Upon Intrinsic Merit, And Not The Slender Helps Of The Title.