Man Alone Is Born Crying, Lives Complaining,

He That Travels In Theory Has No Inconveniences.

The Gloomy And The Resentful Are Always Found Among Those Who Have Nothing To Do Or Who Do Nothing.

Men Who Have Flattered Themselves Into This Opinion Of Their Own Abilities, Look Down On All Who Waste Their Lives Over Books, As A Race Of Inferior Beings Condemned By Nature To Perpetual Pupilage, And Fruitlessly Endeavouring To Remedy Their Barrenness By Incessant Cultivation, Or Succour Their Feebleness By Subsidiary Strength. They Presume That None Would Be More Industrious Than They, If They Were Not More Sensible Of Deficiences; And Readily Conclude, That He Who Places No Confidence In His Own Powers Owes His Modesty Only To His Weakness.

Shakespeare Never Had Six Lines Together Without A Fault. Perhaps You May Find Seven, But This Does Not Refute My General Assertion.

The Wickedness Of A Loose Or Profane Author Is More Atrocious Than That Of A Giddy Libertine Or Drunken Ravisher, Not Only Because It Extends Its Effects Wider, As A Pestilence That Taints The Air Is More Destructive Than Poison Infused In A Draught, But Because It Is Committed With Cool Deliberation.