The Gloomy Months Of November,

But In All Despotic Governments, Though A Particular Prince May Favour Arts And Letter, There Is A Natural Degeneracy Of Mankind.

The Moral Perfections Of The Deity, The More Attentively, We Consider, The More Perfectly Still Shall We Know Them.

Why, A Spirit Is Such A Little, Little Thing, That I Have Heard Man, Who Was A Great Scholar, Say That He'll Dance Ye A Hornpipe Upon The Point Of A Needle.

The Soul, Considered With Its Creator, Is Like One Of Those Mathematical Lines That May Draw Nearer To Another For All Eternity Without A Possibility Of Touching It; And Can There Be A Thought So Transporting As To Consider Ourselves In These Perpetual Approaches To Him, Who Is Not Only The Standard Of Perfection, But Of Happiness?

A True Critic Ought To Dwell Upon Excellencies Rather Than Imperfections, To Discover The Concealed Beauties Of A Writer, And Communicate To The World Such Things As Are Worth Their Observation.