No One But A Fool

But Me, Not Destined Such Delights To Share, My Prime Of Life In Wandering Spent And Care; Impell'd, With Steps Unceasing, To Pursue Some Fleeting Good, That Mocks Me With The View That, Like The Circle Bounding Earth And Skies, Allures From Far, Yet, As I Follow, Flies; My Fortune Leads To Traverse Reams Alone, And Find No Spot Of All The World My Own.

Friendship Is Made Up Of Esteem And Pleasure; Pity Is Composed Of Sorrow And Contempt: The Mind May For Some Time Fluctuate Between Them, But It Can Never Entertain Both At Once.

There Is Nothing So Absurd Or Ridiculous That Has Not At Some Time Been Said By Some Philosopher.

At Night Returning, Every Labour Sped, He Sits Him Down, The Monarch Of A Shed; Smiles By His Cheerful Fire, And Round Surveys His Children's Looks, That Brighten At The Blaze; While His Lov'd Partner, Boastful Of Her Hoard, Displays Her Cleanly Platter On The Board.

There Is One Way By Which A Strolling Player May Be Ever Secure Of Success; That Is, In Our Theatrical Way Of Expressing It, To Make A Great Deal Of The Character. To Speak And Act As In Common Life Is Not Playing, Nor Is It What People Come To See; Natural Speaking, Like Sweet Wine, Runs Glibly Over The Palate And Scarcely Leaves Any Taste Behind It; But Being High In A Part Resembles Vinegar, Which Grates Upon The Taste, And One Feels It While He Is Drinking.