One Of The Most Pernicious

Every Reader Should Remember The Diffidence Of Socrates, And Repair By His Candour The Injuries Of Time: He Should Impute The Seeming Defects Of His Author To Some Chasm Of Intelligence, And Suppose That The Sense Which Is Now Weak Was Once Forcible

Hope Is Itself A Species Of Happiness.

This Mournful Truth Is Everywhere Confessed, Slow Rises Worth By Poverty Depressed.

Many Of Our Miseries Are Merely Comparative: We Are Often Made Unhappy, Not By The Presence Of Any Real Evil, But By The Absence Of Some Fictitious Good; Of Something Which Is Not Required By Any Real Want Of Nature, Which Has Not In Itself Any Power Of Gratification, And Which Neither Reason Nor Fancy Would Have Prompted Us To Wish, Did We Not See It In The Possession Of Others.

The Use Of Travelling Is To Regulate Imagination By Reality, And Instead Of Thinking How Things May Be, To See Them As They Are.