To A Poet Nothing Can Be Useless.

This Mournful Truth Is Everywhere Confessed, Slow Rises Worth By Poverty Depressed.

An Englishman Is Content To Say Nothing When He Has Nothing To Say.

The Purpose Of A Writer Is To Be Read, And The Criticism Which Would Destroy The Power Of Pleasing Must Be Blown Aside

Nature Makes Us Poor Only When We Want Necessaries, But Custom Gives The Name Of Poverty To The Want Of Superfluities.

Pleasure Is Very Seldom Found Where It Is Sought. Our Brightest Blazes Of Gladness Are Commonly Kindled By Unexpected Sparks. The Flowers Which Scatter Their Odours From Time To Time In The Paths Of Life, Grow Up Without Culture From Seeds Scattered By Chance.