Solitude Begets Whimsies.

My Dear Smollett ... Disgraces His Talent By Writing Those Stupid Romances Called History.

The Pious Farmer, Who Ne'er Misses Pray'rs, With Patience Suffers Unexpected Rain; He Blesses Heav'n For What Its Bounty Spares, And Sees, Resign'd, A Crop Of Blighted Grain. But, Spite Of Sermons, Farmers Would Blaspheme, If A Star Fell To Set Their Thatch On Flame.

The Ultimate End Of Your Education Was To Make You A Good Wife.

How Many Thousands ... Earnestly Seeking What They Do Not Want, While They Neglect The Real Blessings In Their Possession -- I Mean The Innocent Gratification Of Their Senses, Which Is All We Can Properly Call Our Own.

Life Is Too Short For A Long Story