To A Poet Nothing Can Be Useless.

Human Happiness Has Always Its Abatements; The Brightest Sunshine Of Success Is Not Without A Cloud.

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.

Luxury, So Far As It Reaches The People, Will Do Good To The Race Of People; It Will Strengthen And Multiply Them. Sir, No Nation Was Ever Hurt By Luxury; For, As I Said Before; It Can Reach But A Very Few.

It Is Natural For Every Man Uninstructed To Murmur At His Condition, Because, In The General Infelicity Of Life, He Feels His Own Miseries Without Knowing That They Are Common To All The Rest Of The Species; And, Therefore, Though He Will Not Be Less Sensible Of Pain By Being Told That Others Are Equally Tormented, He Will At Least Be Freed From The Temptation Of Seeking, By Perpetual Changes, That Ease Which Is No Where To Be Found, And Though His Diseases Still Continue, He Escapes The Hazard Of Exasperating It By Remedies.

It Is Man's Own Fault, It Is From Want Of Use, If His Mind Grows Torpid In Old Age.