The First Race Of Mankind

Is There Not Some Chosen Curse, Some Hidden Thunder In The Stores Of Heaven, Red With Uncommon Wrath, To Blast The Man Who Owes His Greatness To His Country's Ruin!

The World Is So Full Of Ill-nature That I Have Lampoons Sent Me By People Who Cannot Spell, And Satires Composed By Those Who Scarce Know How To Write.

I Value My Garden More For Being Full Of Blackbirds Than Of Cherries, And Very Frankly Give Them Fruit For Their Songs.

It Is Of Unspeakable Advantage To Possess Our Minds With An Habitual Good Intention, And To Aim All Our Thoughts, Words, And Actions At Some Laudable End.

The Post Of Honour Is A Private Station.