A Horse That Can Count To Ten

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.

Great Works Are Performed, Not By Strength, But By Perseverance. Those That Walk With Vigor, Three Hours A Day, Will Pass In Seven Years A Space Equal To The Circumference Of The Globe.

Books Have Always A Secret Influence On The Understanding.

We Never Do Anything Consciously For The Last Time Without Sadness Of Heart.

That The Happiness Of Man May Still Remain Imperfect, As Wants In This Place Are Easily Supplied, New Wants Likewise Are Easily Created; Every Man, In Surveying The Shops Of London, Sees Numberless Instruments And Conveniencies, Of Which, While He Did Not Know Them, He Never Felt The Need; And Yet, When Use Has Made Them Familiar, Wonders How Life Could Be Supported Without Them. Thus It Comes To Pass, That Our Desires Always Increase With Our Possessions; The Knowledge That Something Remains Yet Unenjoyed, Impairs Our Enjoyment Of The Good Before Us.