All Power Of Fancy Over Reason Is

A Man Is In General Better Pleased When He Has A Good Dinner Upon His Table, Than When His Wife Talks Greek.

Such Is The Common Process Of Marriage. A Youth And Maiden Exchange Meeting By Chance, Or Brought Together By Artifice, Exchange Glances, Reciprocate Civilities, Go Home, And Dream Of One Another. Having Little To Divert Attention, Or Diversify Thought, They Find Themselves Uneasy When They Are Apart, And Therefore Conclude That They Shall Be Happy Together. They Marry, And Discover What Nothing But Voluntary Blindness Had Before Concealed; They Wear Out Life In Altercations, And Charge Nature With Cruelty.

Disease Generally Begins That Equality Which Death Completes; The Distinctions Which Set One Man So Much Above Another Are Very Little Perceived In The Gloom Of A Sick Chamber, Where It Will Be Vain To Expect Entertainment From The Gay, Or Instruction From The Wise; Where All Human Glory Is Obliterated, The Wit Is Clouded, The Reasoner Perplexed, And The Hero Subdued; Where The Highest And Brightest Of Mortal Beings Finds Nothing Left Him But The Consciousness Of Innocence.

Just Praise Is Only A Debt, But Flattery Is A Present. The Acknowledgment Of Those Virtues On Which Conscience Congratulates Us Is A Tribute That We Can At Any Tine Exact With Confidence; But The Celebration Of Those Which We Only Feign, Or Desire Without Any Vigorous Endeavours To Attain Them, Is Received As A Confession Of Sovereignty Over Regions Never Conquered, As A Favourable Decision Of Disputable Claims, And Is More Welcome As More Gratuitous.

In Writing, As In Life, Faults Are Endured Without Disgust When They Are Associated With Transcendent Merit, And May Be Sometimes Recommended To Weak Judgments By The Lustre Which They Obtain From Their Union With Excellence; But It Is The Business Of Those Who Presume To Superintend The Taste Or Morals Of Mankind To Separate Delusive Combinations, And Distinguish That Which May Be Praised From That Which Can Only Be Excused.