To A Poet Nothing Can

I Have Protracted My Work Till Most Of Those Whom I Wished To Please Have Sunk Into The Grave, And Success And Miscarriage Are Empty Sounds: I Therefore Dismiss It With Frigid Tranquillity, Having Little To Fear Or Hope From Censure Or From Praise.

Pleasure Is Very Seldom Found Where It Is Sought; Our Brightest Blazes Of Gladness Are Commonly Kindled By Unexpected Sparks.

Little Would Be Wanting To The Happiness Of Life, If Every Man Could Conform To The Right As Soon As He Was Shown It.

But The Distant Hope Of Being One Day Useful Or Eminent Ought Not To Mislead Us Too Far From That Study Which Is Equally Requisite To The Great And Mean, To The Celebrated And Obscure; The Art Of Moderating The Desires, Of Repressing The Appetites; And Of Conciliating Or Retaining The Favour Of Mankind.

The Most Fatal Disease Of Friendship Is Gradual Decay.