The Roses Of Pleasure Seldom

Since Trifles Make The Sum Of Human Things, And Half Our Misery From Our Foibles Springs; Since Life's Best Joys Consist In Peace And Ease, And Though But Few Can Serve, Yet All May Please; On, Let Th' Ungentle Spirit Learn From Hence, A Small Unkindness Is A Great Offence.

The World Does Not Require So Much To Be Informed As To Be Reminded.

How Short Is Human Life! The Very Breath Which Frames My Words Accelerates My Death.

There Is Scarcely Any Fault In Another Which Offends Us More Than Vanity, Though Perhaps There Is None That Really Injures Us So Little.

My Retirement Was Now Become Solitude; The Former Is, I Believe, The Best State For The Mind Of Man, The Latter Almost The Worst. In Complete Solitude, The Eye Wants Objects, The Heart Wants Attachments, The Understanding Wants Reciprocation. The Character Loses Its Tenderness When It Has Nothing To Strengthen It, Its Sweetness When It Has Nothing To Soothe It.