... If It Were The Fashion To

I Despise The Pleasure Of Pleasing People That I Despise.

In Short I Will Part With Anything For You But You.

My Dear Smollett ... Disgraces His Talent By Writing Those Stupid Romances Called History.

Copiousness Of Words, However Ranged, Is Always False Eloquence, Though It Will Ever Impose On Some Sort Of Understandings.

Strictly Speaking, There Is But One Real Evil: I Mean Acute Pain. All Other Complaints Are So Considerably Diminished By Time That It Is Plain The Grief Is Owing To Our Passion, Since The Sensation Of It Vanishes When That Is Over.