The Balls Of Sight Are So Formed,

If A Man Could Say Nothing Against A Character But What He Can Prove, History Could Not Be Written.

He That Condemns Himself To Compose On A Stated Day Will Often Bring To His Task Attention Dissipated, A Memory Embarrassed, An Imagination Overwhelmed, A Mind Distracted With Anxieties, A Body Languishing With Disease: He Will Labour On A Barren Topic Till It Is Too Late To Change It; Or, In The Ardour Of Invention, Diffuse His Thoughts Into Wild Exuberance, Which The Pressing Hour Of Publication Cannot Suffer Judgment To Examine Or Reduce.

The Usual Fortune Of Complaint Is To Excite Contempt More Than Pity.

I Remember A Passage In Goldsmith's "vicar Of Wakefield," Which He Was Afterwards Fool Enough To Expunge: "i Do Not Love A Man Who Is Zealous For Nothing.

Marriage Is The Strictest Tie Of Perpetual Friendship, And There Can Be No Friendship Without Confidence, And No Confidence Without Integrity; And He Must Expect To Be Wretched, Who Pays To Beauty, Riches, Or Politeness That Regard Which Only Virtue And Piety Can Claim.