I Do Not Envy A

There Are, Indeed, Few Kinds Of Composition From Which An Author, However Learned Or Ingenious, Can Hope A Long Continuance Of Fame.

The Power, Indeed, Of Every Individual Is Small, And The Consequence Of His Endeavours Imperceptible, In A General Prospect Of The World. Providence Has Given No Man Ability To Do Much, That Something Might Be Left For Every Man To Do. The Business Of Life Is Carried On By A General Co-operation; In Which The Part Of Any Single Man Can Be No More Distinguished, Than The Effect Of A Particular Drop When The Meadows Are Floated By A Summer Shower: Yet Every Drop Increases The Inundation, And Every Hand Adds To The Happiness Or Misery Of Mankind.

As I Know More Of Mankind I Expect Less Of Them, And Am Ready Now To Call A Man A Good Man Upon Easier Terms Than I Was Formerly.

Those Writers Who Lie On The Watch For Novelty Can Have Little Hope Of Greatness; For Great Things Cannot Have Escaped Former Observation.

A Continual Feast Of Commendation Is Only To Be Obtained By Merit Or By Wealth: Many Are Therefore Obliged To Content Themselves With Single Morsels, And Recompense The Infrequency Of Their Enjoyment By Excess And Riot, Whenever Fortune Sets The Banquet Before Them.