Tomorrow Is An Old Deceiver,

All Intellectual Improvement Arises From Leisure.

When A Poet Mentions The Spring, We Know That The Zephyrs Are About To Whisper, That The Groves Are To Recover Their Verdure, The Linnets To Warble Forth Their Notes Of Love, And The Flocks And Herds To Frisk Over Vales Painted With Flowers: Yet, Who Is There So Insensible Of The Beauties Of Nature, So Little Delighted With The Renovation Of The World, As Not To Feel His Heart Bound At The Mention Of The Spring?

I Remember Very Well, When I Was At Oxford, An Old Gentleman Said To Me, "young Man, Ply Your Book Diligently Now, And Acquire A Stock Of Knowledge; For When Years Come Upon You, You Will Find That Poring Upon Books Will Be But An Irksome Task.

Of Those That Spin Out Trifles And Die Without A Memorial, Many Flatter Themselves With High Opinions Of Their Own Importance, And Imagine That They Are Every Day Adding Some Improvement To Human Life.

Each Person's Work Is Always A Portrait Of Himself.