Languages Are The Pedigree Of Nations.

An Age That Melts In Unperceiv'd Decay, And Glides In Modest Innocence Away.

Language Is The Dress Of Thought; Every Time You Talk Your Mind Is On Parade.

The Mental Disease Of The Present Generation Is Impatience Of Study, Contempt Of The Great Masters Of Ancient Wisdom, And A Disposition To Rely Wholly Upon Unassisted Genius And Natural Sagacity. The Wits Of These Happy Days Have Discovered A Way To Fame, Which The Dull Caution Of Our Laborious Ancestors Durst Never Attempt; They Cut The Knots Of Sophistry, Which It Was Formerly The Business Of Years To Untie, Solve Difficulties By Sudden Irradiations Of Intelligence, And Comprehend Long Processes Of Argument By Immediate Intuition.

They Whose Activity Of Imagination Is Often Shifting The Scenes Of Expectation, Are Frequently Subject To Such Sallies Of Caprice As Make All Their Actions Fortuitous, Destroy The Value Of Their Friendship, Obstruct The Efficacy Of Their Virtues, And Set Them Below The Meanest Of Those Who Persist In Their Resolutions, Execute What They Design, And Perform What They Have Promised.

Superfluous Lags The Veteran On The Stage, Till Pitying Nature Signs The Last Release, And Bids Afflicted Worth Retire To Peace.