It Is Not Contrary To Reason To

Poets Themselves, Tho' Liars By Profession, Always Endeavour To Give An Air Of Truth To Their Fictions.

But The Most Common Species Of Love Is That Which First Arises From Beauty, And Afterwards Diffuses Itself Into Kindness And Into The Bodily Appetite. Kindness Or Esteem, And The Appetite To Generation, Are Too Remote To Unite Easily Together. The One Is, Perhaps, The Most Refined Passion Of The Soul; The Other The Most Gross And Vulgar. The Love Of Beauty Is Placed In A Just Medium Betwixt Them, And Partakes Of Both Their Natures: From Whence It Proceeds, That It Is So Singularly Fitted To Produce Both.

Battles, Revolutions, Pestilence, Famine, And Death, Are Never The Effect Of Those Natural Causes, Which We Experience. Prodigies,omens, Oracles, Judgments, Quite Obscure The Few Natural Events, That Are Intermingled With Them. But As The Former Grow Thinner Every Pagewe Soon Learn, That There Is Nothing Mysterious Or Supernatural In The Case, But That All Proceeds From The Usual Propensity Of Mankind Towards The Marvellous, And That, Though This Inclination May At Intervals Receive A Check From Sense And Learning, It Can Never Be Thoroughly Extirpated.

All Knowledge Degenerates Into Probability.

When The Coherence Of The Parts Of A Stone, Or Even That Composition Of Parts Which Renders It Extended; When These Familiar Objects, I Say, Are So Inexplicable, And Contain Circumstances So Repugnant And Contradictory; With What Assurance Can We Decide Concerning The Origin Of Worlds, Or Trace Their History From Eternity To Eternity?