As Long As Men Are

This Great Misfortune, To Be Incapable Of Solitude.

A Man Starts Upon A Sudden, Takes Pen, Ink, And Paper, And Without Ever Having Had A Thought Of It Before, Resolves Within Himself He Will Write A Book; He Has No Talent At Writing, But He Wants Fifty Guineas.

Those Who Make The Worst Use Of Their Time Are The First To Complain Of Its Shortness.

A Man Who Knows How To Make Good Bargains Or Finds His Money Increase In His Coffers, Thinks Presently That He Has A Good Deal Of Brains And Is Almost Fit To Be A Statesman.

A Heap Of Epithets Is Poor Praise: The Praise Lies In The Facts, And In The Way Of Telling Them.