Instead Of Rating The Man By His

In A Man's Letters You Know, Madam, His Soul Lies Naked, His Letters Are Only The Mirrour Of His Breast.

But To The Particular Species Of Excellence Men Are Directed, Not By An Ascendant Planet Or Predominating Humour, But By The First Book Which They Read, Some Early Conversation Which They Heard, Or Some Accident Which Excited Ardour And Emulation.

A Quibble Is To Shakespeare What Luminous Vapours Are To The Traveller: He Follows It At All Adventures; It Is Sure To Lead Him Out Of His Way And Sure To Engulf Him In The Mire.

To Be Free It Is Not Enough To Beat The System, One Must Beat The System Every Day

The Poor And The Busy Have No Leisure For Sentimental Sorrow.