It Is Commonly A Weak

To Exact Of Every Man Who Writes That He Should Say Something New, Would Be To Reduce Authors To A Small Number; To Oblige The Most Fertile Genius To Say Only What Is New, Would Be To Contract His Volumes To A Few Pages. Yet, Surely, There Ought To Be Some Bounds To Repetition; Libraries Ought No More To Be Heaped For Ever With The Same Thoughts Differently Expressed, Than With The Same Books Differently Decorated.

The Business Of The Biographer Is Often To Pass Slightly Over Those Performances And Incidents Which Produce Vulgar Greatness, To Lead The Thoughts Into Domestic Privacies, And Display The Minute Details Of Daily Life, Were Exterior Appendages Are Cast Aside, And Men Excel Each Other Only By Prudence And Virtue.

The Good Of Our Present State Is Merely Comparative, And The Evil Which Every Man Feels Will Be Sufficient To Disturb And Harass Him If He Does Not Know How Much He Escapes.

Contempt Is A Kind Of Gangrene Which, If It Seizes One Part Of A Character, Corrupts All The Rest By Degrees.

He Who Fails To Please In His Salutation And Address Is At Once Rejected, And Never Obtains An Opportunity Of Showing His Latest Excellences Or Essential Qualities.