I Also Admit, That There Are Some

There Is Something In Obstinacy Which Differs From Every Other Passion. Whenever It Fails, It Never Recovers, But Either Breaks Like Iron, Or Crumbles Sulkily Away, Like A Fractured Arch. Most Other Passions Have Their Periods Of Fatigue And Rest, Their Sufferings And Their Cure; But Obstinacy Has No Resource, And The First Wound Is Mortal.

The Authour Who Imitates His Predecessors Only By Furnishing Himself With Thoughts And Elegances Out Of The Same General Magazine Of Literature, Can With Little More Propriety Be Reproached As A Plagiary, Than The Architect Can Be Censured As A Mean Copier Of Angelo Or Wren, Because He Digs His Marble Out Of The Same Quarry, Squares His Stones By The Same Art, And Unites Them In Columns Of The Same Orders.

Reason Elevates Our Thoughts As High As The Stars, And Leads Us Through The Vast Space Of This Mighty Fabric; Yet It Comes Far Short Of The Real Extent Of Our Corporeal Being.

He Was Dull In A New Way, And That Made Many Think Him Great.

Pride Is Seldom Delicate, It Will Please Itself With Very Mean Advantages; And Envy Feels Not Its Own Happiness, But When It May Be Compared With The Misery Of Others