When One Is At Play,

It Must Be Owned, That The Graces Do Not Seem To Be Natives Of Great Britain; And I Doubt, The Best Of Us Here Have More Of Rough Than Polished Diamond.

A Learned Parson, Rusting In His Cell At Oxford Or Cambridge, Will Reason Admirably Well Upon The Nature Of Man; Will Profoundly Analyze The Head, The Heart, The Reason, The Will, The Passions, The Senses, The Sentiments, And All Those Subdivisions Of We Know Not What ; And Yet, Unfortunately, He Knows Nothing Of Man... He Views Man As He Does Colours In Sir Isaac Newton's Prism, Where Only The Capital Ones Are Seen; But An Experienced Dyer Knows All Their Various Shades And Gradations, Together With The Result Of Their Several Mixtures.

In The Course Of The World, A Man Must Very Often Put On An Easy, Frank Countenance, Upon Very Disagreeable Occasions; He Must Seem Pleased, When He Is Very Much Otherwise; He Must Be Able To Accost And Receive With Smiles, Those Whom He Would Much Rather Meet With Swords.

Let It Be Your Maxim Through Life, To Know All You Can Know, Yourself; And Never To Trust Implicitly To The Information Of Others.

I Am Grown Old, And Have Possibly Lost A Great Deal Of That Fire, Which Formerly Made Me Love Fire In Others At Any Rate, And However Attended With Smoke: But Now I Must Have All Sense, And Cannot, For The Sake Of Five Righteous Lines, Forgive A Thousand Absurd Ones.