When A Man Is Tired Of London,

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.

Every Man Has Some Favorite Topic Of Conversation, On Which, By A Feigned Seriousness Of Attention, He May Be Drawn To Expatiate Without End.

The Authors That In Any Nation Last From Age To Age Are Very Few, Because There Are Very Few That Have Any Other Claim To Notice Than That They Catch Hold On Present Curiosity, And Gratify Some Accidental Desire, Or Produce Some Temporary Conveniency.

It Is The Care Of A Very Great Part Of Mankind To Conceal Their Indigence From The Rest. They Support Themselves By Temporary Expedients, And Every Day Is Lost In Contriving For To-morrow.

The Joy Of Life Is Variety; The Tenderest Love Requires To Be Rekindled By Intervals Of Absence.