Wit Is That Which Has

Don't Think Of Retiring From The World Until The World Will Be Sorry That You Retire. I Hate A Fellow Whom Pride Or Cowardice Or Laziness Drive Into A Corner, And Who Does Nothing When He Is There But Sit And Growl. Let Him Come Out As I Do, And Bark.

Hope Is Necessary In Every Condition. The Miseries Of Poverty, Of Sickness, Or Captivity, Would, Without This Comfort, Be Insupportable; Nor Does It Appear That The Happiest Lot Of Terrestrial Existence Can Set Us Above The Want Of This General Blessing; Or That Life, When The Gifts Of Nature And Of Fortune Are Accumulated Upon It, Would Not Still Be Wretched, Were It Not Elevated And Delighted By The Expectation Of Some New Possession, Of Some Enjoyment Yet Behind, By Which The Wish Shall At Last Be Satisfied, And The Heart Filled Up To Its Utmost Extent.

Spite And Ill-nature Are Among The Most Expensive Luxuries In Life.

Poverty Is Often Concealed In Splendor, And Often In Extravagance. It Is The Task Of Many People To Conceal Their Neediness From Others. Consequently They Support Themselves By Temporary Means, And Everyday Is Lost In Contriving For Tomorrow.

How Many May A Man Of Diffusive Conversation Count Among His Acquaintances, Whose Lives Have Been Signalized By Numberless Escapes; Who Never Cross The River But In A Storm, Or Take A Journey Into The Country Without More Adventures Than Befel The Knights-errant Of Ancient Times In Pathless Forests Or Enchanted Castles! How Many Must He Know, To Whom Portents And Prodigies Are Of Daily Occurrence; And For Whom Nature Is Hourly Working Wonders Invisible To Every Other Eye, Only To Supply Them With Subjects Of Conversation?