In Life's Last Scene What Prodigies Surprise,

The Student Who Would Build His Knowledge On Solid Foundations, And Proceed By Just Degrees To The Pinnacles Of Truth, Is Directed By The Great Philosopher Of France To Begin By Doubting Of His Own Existence. In Like Manner, Whoever Would Complete Any Arduous And Intricate Enterprise, Should, As Soon As His Imagination Can Cool After The First Blaze Of Hope, Place Before His Own Eyes Every Possible Embarrassment That May Retard Or Defeat Him. He Should First Question The Probability Of Success, And Then Endeavour To Remove The Objections That He Has Raised.

If I Had No Duties, And No Reference To Futurity, I Would Spend My Life In Driving Briskly In A Post-chaise With A Pretty Woman.

Enlarge My Life With Multitude Of Days, In Health, In Sickness, Thus The Suppliant Prays; Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know, That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe. Time Hovers O'er, Impatient To Destroy, And Shuts Up All The Passages Of Joy.

If An Author Be Supposed To Involve His Thoughts In Voluntary Obscurity, And To Obstruct, By Unnecessary Difficulties, A Mind Eager In The Pursuit Of Truth; If He Writes Not To Make Others Learned, But To Boast The Learning Which He Possesses Himself, And Wishes To Be Admired Rather Than Understood, He Counteracts The First End Of Writing, And Justly Suffers The Utmost Severity Of Censure, Or The More Afflicting Severity Of Neglect.

Must Helpless Man, In Ignorance Sedate, Roll Darkly Down The Torrent Of His Fate.