A Soul Exasperated In Ills, Falls Out

Antidotes Are What You Take To Prevent Dotes.

I Have Often Thought, Says Sir Roger, It Happens Very Well That Christmas Should Fall Out In The Middle Of Winter.

The Memory Is Perpetually Looking Back When We Have Nothing Present To Entertain Us. It Is Like Those Repositories In Animals That Are Filled With Food, On Which They May Ruminate When Their Present Pastures Fail.

Everything That Is New Or Uncommon Raises A Pleasure In The Imagination, Because It Fills The Soul With An Agreeable Surprise, Gratifies Its Curiosity, And Gives It An Idea Of Which It Was Not Before Possessed.

Oh! Think What Anxious Moments Pass Between The Birth Of Plots, And Their Last Fatal Periods, Oh! 'tis A Dreadful Interval Of Time, Filled Up With Horror All, And Big With Death!