Love Has No Great Influences Upon The

Man Is A Transitory Being, And His Designs Must Partake Of The Imperfections Of Their Author. To Confer Duration Is Not Always In Our Power. We Must Snatch The Present Moment, And Employ It Well, Without Too Much Solicitude For The Future, And Content Ourselves With Reflecting That Our Part Is Performed. He That Waits For An Opportunity To Do Much At Once, May Breathe Out His Life In Idle Wishes, And Regret, In The Last Hour, His Useless Intentions And Barren Zeal.

Nothing Detains The Reader's Attention More Powerfully Than Deep Involutions Of Distress, Or Sudden Vicissitudes Of Fortune; And These Might Be Abundantly Afforded By Memoirs Of The Sons Of Literature. They Are Entangled By Contracts Which They Know Not How To Fulfill, And Obliged To Write On Subjects Which They Do Not Understand. Every Publication Is A New Period Of Time, From Which Some Increase Or Declension Of Fame Is To Be Reckoned. The Gradations Of A Hero's Life Are From Battle To Battle, And Of An Author's From Book To Book.

Words Too Familiar, Or Too Remote, Defeat The Purpose Of A Poet. From Those Sounds Which We Hear On Small Or On Coarse Occasions, We Do Not Easily Receive Strong Impressions, Or Delightful Images; And Words To Which We Are Nearly Strangers, Whenever They Occur, Draw That Attention On Themselves Which They Should Transmit To Other Things.

No Man Should Attempt To Teach Others What He Has Never Learned Himself

If Useless Thoughts Could Be Expelled From The Mind, All The Valuable Parts Of Our Knowledge Would More Frequently Recur.