The Uncertainty Of Death Is,

Persius Has Justly Observed, That Knowledge Is Nothing To Him Who Is Not Known By Others To Possess It: To The Scholar Himself It Is Nothing With Respect Either To Honour Or Advantage, For The World Cannot Reward Those Qualities Which Are Concealed From It; With Respect To Others It Is Nothing, Because It Affords No Help To Ignorance Or Errour.

But, Perhaps, The Flatterer Is Not Often Detected; For An Honest Mind Is Not Apt To Suspect, And No One Exerts The Power Of Discernment With Much Vigour When Selflove Favors The Deceit.

Love Has No Great Influences Upon The Sum Of Life.

Before Dinner Men Meet With Great Inequality Of Understanding; And Those Who Are Conscious Of Their Inferiority Have The Modesty Not To Talk; When They Have Drunk Wine, Every Man Feels Himself Happy, And Loses That Modesty, And Grows Impudent And Vociferous; But He Is Not Improved; He Is Only Not Sensible Of His Defects.

All Knowledge Is Of Itself Of Some Value. There Is Nothing So Minute Or Inconsiderable, That I Would Not Rather Know It Than Not. In The Same Manner, All Power, Of Whatever Sort, Is Of Itself Desirable. A Man Would Not Submit To Learn To Hem A Ruffle, Of His Wife, Or His Wife's Maid; But If A Mere Wish Could Attain It, He Would Rather Wish To Be Able To Hem A Ruffle.