All Knowledge Degenerates Into Probability.

Never Literary Attempt Was More Unfortunate Than My Treatise Of Human Nature. It Fell Dead-born From The Press.

A Hundred Cabinet-makers In London Can Work A Table Or A Chair Equally Well; But No One Poet Can Write Verses With Such Spirit And Elegance As Mr. Pope.

No Amount Of Observations Of White Swans Can Allow The Inference That All Swans Are White, But The Observation Of A Single Black Swan Is Sufficient To Refute That Conclusion.

There Is Nothing, In Itself, Valuable Or Despicable, Desirable Or Hateful, Beautiful Or Deformed; But That These Attributes Arise From The Particular Constitution And Fabric Of Human Sentiment And Affection.

Truth Is Disputable; Not Taste: What Exists In The Nature Of Things Is The Standard Of Our Judgement; What Each Man Feels Within Himself Is The Standard Of Sentiment. Propositions In Geometry May Be Proved, Systems In Physics May Be Controverted; But The Harmony Of Verse, The Tenderness Of Passion, The Brilliancy Of Wit, Must Give Immediate Pleasure. No Man Reasons Concerning Another's Beauty; But Frequently Concerning The Justice Or Injustice Of His Actions.