By Those Who Look Close To The

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.

No Man Reads A Book Of Science From Pure Inclination. The Books That We Do Read With Pleasure Are Light Compositions, Which Contain A Quick Succession Of Events.

There Is No Idleness, By Which We Are So Easily Seduced, As That Which Dignifies Itself By The Appearance Of Business, And By Making The Loiterer Imagine That He Has Something To Do Which Must Not Be Neglected, Keeps Him In Perpetual Agitation, And Hurries Him Rapidly From Place To Place.

Every Man Has Frequent Grievances Which Only The Solicitude Of Friendship Will Discover And Remedy, And Which Would Remain For Ever Unheeded In The Mighty Heap Of Human Calamity, Were It Only Surveyed By The Eye Of General Benevolence Equally Attentive To Every Misery.

Every Period Of Life Is Obliged To Borrow Its Happiness From Time To Come.