For Gold The Hireling Judge

With What Hope Can We Endeavor To Persuade The Ladies That The Time Spent At The Toilet Is Lost In Vanity.

There Is Scarcely Any Writer Who Has Not Celebrated The Happiness Of Rural Privacy, And Delighted Himself And His Reader With The Melody Of Birds, The Whisper Of Groves, And The Murmur Of Rivulets.

Sorrow Is The Mere Rust Of The Soul. Activity Will Cleanse And Brighten It.

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.

No Man Can Fall Into Contempt But Those Who Deserve It.