You Hesitate To Stab Me With A

No Man Likes To Live Under The Eye Of Perpetual Disapprobation.

Works Of Imagination Excel By Their Allurement And Delight; By Their Power Of Attracting And Detaining The Attention. That Book Is Good In Vain Which The Reader Throws Away. He Only Is The Master Who Keeps The Mind In Pleasing Captivity; Whose Pages Are Perused With Eagerness, And In Hope Of New Pleasure Are Perused Again; And Whose Conclusion Is Perceived With An Eye Of Sorrow, Such As The Traveller Casts Upon Departing Day.

Where No Man Thinks Himself Under Any Obligation To Submit To Another, And, Instead Of Co-operating In One Great Scheme, Every One Hastens Through By-paths To Private Profit, No Great Change Can Suddenly Be Made; Nor Is Superior Knowledge Of Much Effect, Where Every Man Resolves To Use His Own Eyes And His Own Judgment, And Every One Applauds His Own Dexterity And Diligence, In Proportion As He Becomes Rich Sooner Than His Neighbour.

Genius, That Power Which Constitutes A Poet; That Quality Without Which Judgment Is Cold, And Knowledge Is Inert; That Energy Which Collects, Combines, Amplifies And Animates.

What Is Read Twice Is Usually Remembered More Than What Is Once Written.