Books Without The Knowledge Of Life Are

A Quibble Is To Shakespeare What Luminous Vapours Are To The Traveller: He Follows It At All Adventures; It Is Sure To Lead Him Out Of His Way And Sure To Engulf Him In The Mire.

I Hope I Shall Never Be Deterred From Detecting What I Think A Cheat, By The Menaces Of A Ruffian.

Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

All Envy Is Proportionate To Desire.

All Discourse Of Which Others Cannot Partake Is Not Only An Irksome Usurpation Of The Time Devoted To Pleasure And Entertainment, But, What Never Fails To Excite Resentment, An Insolent Assertion Of Superiority, And A Triumph Over Less Enlightened Understandings. The Pedant Is, Therefore, Not Only Heard With Weariness But Malignity; And Those Who Conceive Themselves Insulted By His Knowledge Never Fail To Tell With Acrimony How Injudiciously It Was Exerted.