Thy Steady Temper, Portius, Can

Men Of Warm Imaginations And Towering Thoughts Are Apt To Overlook The Goods Of Fortune Which Are Near Them, For Something That Glitters In The Sight At A Distance; To Neglect Solid And Substantial Happiness For What Is Showy And Superficial; And To Contemn That Good Which Lies Within Their Reach, For That Which They Are Not Capable Of Attaining. Hope Calculates Its Schemes For A Long And Durable Life; Presses Forward To Imaginary Points Of Bliss; Grasps At Impossibilities; And Consequently Very Often Ensnares Men Into Beggary, Ruin, And Dishonour.

Round-heads And Wooden-shoes Are Standing Jokes.

I Never Knew A Critic Who Made It His Business To Lash The Faults Of Other Writers That Was Not Guilty Of Greater Himself--as The Hangman Is Generally A Worse Malefactor Than The Criminal That Suffers By His Hand.

Nature In Her Whole Drama Never Drew Such A Part; She Has Sometimes Made A Fool, But A Coxcomb Is Always Of A Man's Own Making.

There Is Not Any Present Moment That Is Unconnected With Some Future One. The Life Of Every Man Is A Continued Chain Of Incidents, Each Link Of Which Hangs Upon The Former. The Transition From Cause To Effect, From Event To Event, Is Often Carried On By Secret Steps, Which Our Foresight Cannot Divine, And Our Sagacity Is Unable To Trace. Evil May At Some Future Period Bring Forth Good; And Good May Bring Forth Evil, Both Equally Unexpected.