Amidst The Soft Variety I'm Lost.

The Gloomy Months Of November, When The People Of England Hang And Drown Themselves.

Though A Man Has All Other Perfections, And Wants Discretion, He Will Be Of No Great Consequence In The World; But If He Has This Single Talent In Perfection, And But A Common Share Of Others, He May Do What He Pleases In His Station Of Life.

Among Those Evils Which Befall Us, There Are Many Which Have Been More Painful To Us In The Prospect Than By Their Actual Pressure.

To Be Exempt From The Passions With Which Others Are Tormented, Is The Only Pleasing Solitude.

There Is No Society Or Conversation To Be Kept Up In The World Without Good-nature, Or Something Which Must Bear Its Appearance And Supply Its Place. For This Reason Mankind Have Been Forced To Invent A Kind Of Artificial Humanity, Which Is What We Express By The Word Good-breeding.