Immoderate Power, Like Other Intemperance, Leaves The

Be Assured That, Although Men Of Eminent Genius Have Been Guilty Of All Other Vices, None Worthy Of More Than A Secondary Name Has Ever Been A Gamester. Either An Excess Of Avarice Or A Deficiency Of What, In Physics, Is Called Excitability, Is The Cause Of It; Neither Of Which Can Exist In The Same Bosom With Genius, With Patriotism, Or With Virtue.

An Ingenuous Mind Feels In Unmerited Praise The Bitterest Reproof. If You Reject It You Are Unhappy, If You Accept It You Are Undone.

This Is The Pleasantest Part Of Life. Oblivion Throws Her Light Coverlet Over Our Infancy; And, Soon After We Are Out Of The Cradle We Forget How Soundly We Had Been Slumbering, And How Delightful Were Our Dreams. Toil And Pleasure Contend For Us Almost The Instant We Rise From It: And Weariness Follows Whichever Has Carried Us Away. We Stop Awhile, Look Around Us, Wonder To Find We Have Completed The Circle Of Existence, Fold Our Arms, And Fall Asleep Again.

As The Pearl Ripens In The Obscurity Of Its Shell, So Ripens In The Tomb All The Fame That Is Truly Precious.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.