How Beautiful Is Death, When Earn'd By

It Is Impossible For Us, Who Live In The Latter Ages Of The World, To Make Observations In Criticism, Morality, Or In Any Art Or Science, Which Have Not Been Touched Upon By Others. We Have Little Else Left Us But To Represent The Common Sense Of Mankind In More Strong, More Beautiful, Or More Uncommon Lights.

There Is No Kind Of False Wit Which Has Been So Recommended By The Practice Of All Ages, As That Which Consists In A Jingle Of Words, And Is Comprehended Under The General Name Of Punning.

Cunning Has Only Private Selfish Aims, And Sticks At Nothing Which May Make Them Succeed. Discretion Has Large And Extended Views, And, Like A Well-formed Eye, Commands A Whole Horizon; Cunning Is A Kind Of Shortsightedness, That Discovers The Minutest Objects Which Are Near At Hand, But Is Not Able To Discern Things At A Distance.

Simonides, A Poet Famous In His Generation, Is, I Think, Author Of The Oldest Satire That Is Now Extant, And, As Some Say, Of The First That Was Ever Written.

Love Is A Second Life.