I Never Did A Single Wise Thing

The Damps Of Autumn Sink Into The Leaves And Prepare Them For The Necessity Of Their Fall; And Thus Insensibly Are We, As Years Close Around Us, Detached From Our Tenacity Of Life By The Gentle Pressure Of Recorded Sorrow.

The Eyes Of Critics, Whether In Commending Or Carping, Are Both On One Side, Like A Turbot's.

How Delightful It Is To See A Friend After A Length Of Absence! How Delightful To Chide Him For That Length Of Absence To Which We Owe Such Delight.

The Writing Of The Wise Are The Only Riches Our Posterity Cannot Squander.

We Listen To Those Whom We Know To Be Of The Same Opinion As Ourselves, And We Call Them Wise For Being Of It; But We Avoid Such As Differ From Us.