Love Is A Second Life;

One Would Wonder To Hear Skeptical Men Disputing For The Reason Of Animals, And Telling Us It Is Only Our Pride And Prejudices That Will Not Allow Them The Use Of That Faculty. Reason Shows Itself In All Occurrences Of Life; Whereas The Brute Makes No Discovery Of Such A Talent, But In What Immediately Regards His Own Preservation, Or The Continuance Of His Species. Animals In Their Generation Are Wiser Than The Sons Of Men; But Their Wisdom Is Confined To A Few Particulars, And Lies In A Very Narrow Compass. Take A Brute Out Of His Instinct, And You Find Him Wholly Deprived Of Understanding.

The English Writers Of Tragedy Are Possessed With A Notion, That When They Represent A Virtuous Or Innocent Person In Distress, They Ought Not To Leave Him Till They Have Delivered Him Out Of His Troubles, Or Made Him Triumph Over His Enemies.

If There's A Power Above Us, (and That There Is All Nature Cries Aloud Through All Her Works,) He Must Delight In Virtue.

The Discreet Man Finds Out The Talents Of Those He Converses With, And Knows How To Apply Them To Proper Uses. Accordingly, If We Look Into Particular Communities And Divisions Of Men, We May Observe That It Is The Discreet Man, Not The Witty, Nor The Learned, Nor The Brave, Who Guides The Conversation, And Gives Measures To The Society.

Mirth Is Like A Flash Of Lightning, That Breaks Through A Gloom Of Clouds, And Glitters For A Moment; Cheerfulness Keeps Up A Kind Of Daylight In The Mind, And Fills It With A Steady And Perpetual Serenity.