Come, Let Me Know What It Is

We Are Long Before We Are Convinced That Happiness Is Never To Be Found, And Each Believes It Possessed By Others, To Keep Alive The Hope Of Obtaining It For Himself.

If The Guardian Or The Mother Tell The Woes Of Willful Waste, Scorn Their Counsel And Their Pother, You Can Hang Or Drown At Last.

If An Author Be Supposed To Involve His Thoughts In Voluntary Obscurity, And To Obstruct, By Unnecessary Difficulties, A Mind Eager In The Pursuit Of Truth; If He Writes Not To Make Others Learned, But To Boast The Learning Which He Possesses Himself, And Wishes To Be Admired Rather Than Understood, He Counteracts The First End Of Writing, And Justly Suffers The Utmost Severity Of Censure, Or The More Afflicting Severity Of Neglect.

I Have Always Said The First Whig Was The Devil.

And Panting Time Toil'd After Him In Vain.