Jesting, Often, Only Proves A Want Of

When A Poet Mentions The Spring, We Know That The Zephyrs Are About To Whisper, That The Groves Are To Recover Their Verdure, The Linnets To Warble Forth Their Notes Of Love, And The Flocks And Herds To Frisk Over Vales Painted With Flowers: Yet, Who Is There So Insensible Of The Beauties Of Nature, So Little Delighted With The Renovation Of The World, As Not To Feel His Heart Bound At The Mention Of The Spring?

I Do Not Know, Sir, That The Fellow Is An Infidel; But If He Be An Infidel, He Is An Infidel As A Dog Is An Infidel; That Is To Say, He Has Never Thought Upon The Subject.

Distance Either Of Time Or Place Is Sufficient To Reconcile Weak Minds To Wonderful Relations.

It Is Natural For Every Man Uninstructed To Murmur At His Condition, Because, In The General Infelicity Of Life, He Feels His Own Miseries Without Knowing That They Are Common To All The Rest Of The Species; And, Therefore, Though He Will Not Be Less Sensible Of Pain By Being Told That Others Are Equally Tormented, He Will At Least Be Freed From The Temptation Of Seeking, By Perpetual Changes, That Ease Which Is No Where To Be Found, And Though His Diseases Still Continue, He Escapes The Hazard Of Exasperating It By Remedies.

There Seems To Be A Strange Affectation In Authors Of Appearing To Have Done Everything By Chance.