Foppery Is Never Cured; It

Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

The Most Fatal Disease Of Friendship Is Gradual Decay.

Every Man May Be Observed To Have A Certain Strain Of Lamentation, Some Peculiar Theme Of Complaint On Which He Dwells In His Moments Of Dejection.

If A Madman Were To Come Into This Room With A Stick In His Hand, No Doubt We Should Pity The State Of His Mind; But Our Primary Consideration Would Be To Take Care Of Ourselves. We Should Knock Him Down First, And Pity Him Afterwards.

It Is Not Possible To Be Regarded With Tenderness, Except By A Few. That Merit Which Gives Greatness And Renown Diffuses Its Influence To A Wide Compass, But Acts Weakly On Every Single Breast; It Is Placed At A Distance From Common Spectators, And Shines Like One Of The Remote Stars, Of Which The Light Reaches Us, But Not The Heat.