If One Was To Think Constantly Of

The Cure For The Greatest Part Of Human Miseries Is Not Radical, But Palliative.

Fear Is Implanted In Us As A Preservative From Evil But Its Duty, Like That Of Other Passions, Is Not To Overbear Reason, But To Assist It. It Should Not Be Suffered To Tyrannize In The Imagination, To Raise Phantoms Of Horror, Or To Beset Life With Supernumerary Distresses.

A Man, Sir, Should Keep His Friendship In A Constant Repair.

Foppery Is Never Cured; It Is The Bad Stamina Of The Mind, Which, Like Those Of The Body, Are Never Rectified; Once A Coxcomb Always A Coxcomb.

"uisce Beatha" Is A Compounded Distilled Spirit Being Drawn On Aromatics, And The Irish Sort Is Particularly Distinguished For Its Pleasant And Mild Flavour.