Of All Noises, I Think Music Is

Man Is A Transitory Being, And His Designs Must Partake Of The Imperfections Of Their Author. To Confer Duration Is Not Always In Our Power. We Must Snatch The Present Moment, And Employ It Well, Without Too Much Solicitude For The Future, And Content Ourselves With Reflecting That Our Part Is Performed. He That Waits For An Opportunity To Do Much At Once, May Breathe Out His Life In Idle Wishes, And Regret, In The Last Hour, His Useless Intentions And Barren Zeal.

Exactness Is First Obtained, And Afterwards Elegance. But Diction, Merely Vocal, Is Always In Its Childhood. As No Man Leaves His Eloquence Behind Him, The New Generations Have All To Learn. There May Possibly Be Books Without A Polished Language, But There Can Be No Polished Language Without Books.

There Is A Certain Race Of Men That Either Imagine It Their Duty, Or Make It Their Amusement, To Hinder The Reception Of Every Work Of Learning Or Genius, Who Stand As Sentinels In The Avenues Of Fame, And Value Themselves Upon Giving Ignorance And Envy The First Notice Of A Prey.

Though It Is Evident, That Not More Than One Age Or People Can Deserve The Censure Of Being More Averse From Learning Than Any Other, Yet At All Times Knowledge Must Have Encountered Impediments, And Wit Been Mortified With Contempt, Or Harassed With Persecution.

The Present Is Never A Happy State To Any Human Being.