Profuseness Is A Cruel And Crafty Demon,

Many Of Our Miseries Are Merely Comparative: We Are Often Made Unhappy, Not By The Presence Of Any Real Evil, But By The Absence Of Some Fictitious Good; Of Something Which Is Not Required By Any Real Want Of Nature, Which Has Not In Itself Any Power Of Gratification, And Which Neither Reason Nor Fancy Would Have Prompted Us To Wish, Did We Not See It In The Possession Of Others.

Consultation And Compliance Can Conduce Little To The Perfection Of Any Literary Performance; For Whoever Is So Doubtful Of His Own Abilities As To Encourage The Remarks Of Others, Will Find Himself Every Day Embarrassed With New Difficulties, And Will Harass His Mind, In Vain, With The Hopeless Labour Of Uniting Heterogeneous Ideas, Digesting Independent Hints, And Collecting Into One Point The Several Rays Of Borrowed Light, Emitted Often With Contrary Directions.

All Power Of Fancy Over Reason Is A Degree Of Madness.

A Contempt Of The Monuments And The Wisdom Of The Past, May Be Justly Reckoned One Of The Reigning Follies Of These Days, To Which Pride And Idleness Have Equally Contributed.

He Left The Name At Which The World Grew Pale, To Point A Moral, Or Adorn A Tale.