Pour Forth Thy Fervors For A Healthful

Of All The Griefs That Harass The Distress'd, Sure The Most Bitter Is A Scornful Jest; Fate Never Wounds More Deep The Generous Heart, Than When A Blockhead's Insult Points The Dart.

The Number Of Such As Live Without The Ardour Of Inquiry Is Very Small, Though Many Content Themselves With Cheap Amusements, And Waste Their Lives In Researches Of No Importance.

The Public Pleasures Of Far The Greater Part Of Mankind Are Counterfeit.

Hope Is An Amusement Rather Than A Good, And Adapted To None But Very Tranquil Minds.

The Pleasure Of Expecting Enjoyment Is Often Greater Than That Of Obtaining It, And The Completion Of Almost Every Wish Is Found A Disappointment.