The End Of Writing Is

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.

Few Enterprises Of Great Labor Or Hazard Would Be Undertaken If We Had Not The Power Of Magnifying The Advantages We Expect From Them.

In The Description Of Night In Macbeth, The Beetle And The Bat Detract From The General Idea Of Darkness - Inspissated Gloom.

Rags Will Always Make Their Appearance Where They Have A Right To Do It.

Such Is The State Of Life, That None Are Happy But By The Anticipation Of Change: The Change Itself Is Nothing; When We Have Made It, The Next Wish Is To Change Again.