No One Is Much Pleased

An Age That Melts In Unperceiv'd Decay, And Glides In Modest Innocence Away.

Order Is A Lovely Nymph, The Child Of Beauty And Wisdom; Her Attendants Are Comfort, Neatness, And Activity; Her Abode Is The Valley Of Happiness: She Is Always To Be Found When Sought For, And Never Appears So Lovely As When Contrasted With Her Opponent, Disorder.

Pleasure Itself Is Not A Vice

To Write Is, Indeed, No Unpleasing Employment, When One Sentiment Readily Produces Another, And Both Ideas And Expressions Present Themselves At The First Summons; But Such Happiness, The Greatest Genius Does Not Always Obtain; And Common Writers Know It Only To Such A Degree, As To Credit Its Possibility. Composition Is, For The Most Part, An Effort Of Slow Diligence And Steady Perseverance, To Which The Mind Is Dragged By Necessity Or Resolution, And From Which The Attention Is Every Moment Starting To More Delightful Amusements.

To Read, Write, And Converse In Due Proportions, Is, Therefore, The Business Of A Man Of Letters.