It's All Been Very Interesting.

Writers Of Novels And Romance In General Bring A Double Loss To Their Readers; Robbing Them Of Their Time And Money; Representing Men, Manners, And Things, That Never Have Been, Or Are Likely To Be.

Prudent People Are Very Happy; 'tis An Exceeding Fine Thing, That's Certain, But I Was Born Without It, And Shall Retain To My Day Of Death The Humour Of Saying What I Think.

Whoever Will Cultivate Their Own Mind Will Find Full Employment. Every Virtue Does Not Only Require Great Care In The Planting, But As Much Daily Solicitude In Cherishing As Exotic Fruits And Flowers; The Vices And Passions (which I Am Afraid Are The Natural Product Of The Soil) Demand Perpetual Weeding. Add To This The Search After Knowledge. . . And The Longest Life Is Too Short.

Muse, Time Has Taught Me That All Metaphysical Systems, Even Historical Facts Given As Truths, Are Hardly That, So I Amuse Myself With More Agreeable Lies; I No Longer Read Anything But Novels.

A Face Is Too Slight A Foundation For Happiness.