A Quibble Is To Shakespeare What Luminous

If A Man Does Not Make New Acquaintances As He Advances Through Life, He Will Soon Find Himself Left Alone. A Man, Sir, Should Keep His Friendship In A Constant Repair.

The Parallel Circumstances And Kindred Images To Which We Readily Conform Our Minds Are, Above All Other Writings, To Be Found In The Lives Of Particular Persons, And Therefore No Species Of Writing Seems More Worthy Of Cultivation Than Biography.

Deceit And Falsehood, Whatever Conveniences They May For A Time Promise Or Produce, Are, In The Sum Of Life, Obstacles To Happiness. Those Who Profit By The Cheat Distrust The Deceiver; And The Act By Which Kindness Was Sought Puts An End To Confidence.

How Many May A Man Of Diffusive Conversation Count Among His Acquaintances, Whose Lives Have Been Signalized By Numberless Escapes; Who Never Cross The River But In A Storm, Or Take A Journey Into The Country Without More Adventures Than Befel The Knights-errant Of Ancient Times In Pathless Forests Or Enchanted Castles! How Many Must He Know, To Whom Portents And Prodigies Are Of Daily Occurrence; And For Whom Nature Is Hourly Working Wonders Invisible To Every Other Eye, Only To Supply Them With Subjects Of Conversation?

A Good Wife Is Like The Ivy Which Beautifies The Building To Which It Clings, Twining Its Tendrils More Lovingly As Time Converts The Ancient Edifice Into A Ruin.