Love Is The Wisdom Of The Fool

Consultation And Compliance Can Conduce Little To The Perfection Of Any Literary Performance; For Whoever Is So Doubtful Of His Own Abilities As To Encourage The Remarks Of Others, Will Find Himself Every Day Embarrassed With New Difficulties, And Will Harass His Mind, In Vain, With The Hopeless Labour Of Uniting Heterogeneous Ideas, Digesting Independent Hints, And Collecting Into One Point The Several Rays Of Borrowed Light, Emitted Often With Contrary Directions.

Yet Reason Frowns In War's Unequal Game, Where Wasted Nations Raise A Single Name; And Mortgag'd States Their Grandsire's Wreaths Regret, From Age To Age In Everlasting Debt; Wreaths Which At Last The Dear-bought Right Convey To Rust On Medals, Or On Stones Decay.

You Think I Love Flattery (says Dr. Johnson), And So I Do; But A Little Too Much Always Disgusts Me: That Fellow Richardson, On The Contrary, Could Not Be Contented To Sail Quietly Down The Stream Of Reputation, Without Longing To Taste The Froth From Every Stroke Of The Oar.

Waste Cannot Be Accurately Told, Though We Are Sensible How Destructive It Is. Economy, On The One Hand, By Which A Certain Income Is Made To Maintain A Man Genteelly; And Waste, On The Other, By Which On The Same Income Another Man Lives Shabbily, Cannot Be Defined. It Is A Very Nice Thing; As One Man Wears His Coat Out Much Sooner Than Another, We Cannot Tell How.

Where No Man Thinks Himself Under Any Obligation To Submit To Another, And, Instead Of Co-operating In One Great Scheme, Every One Hastens Through By-paths To Private Profit, No Great Change Can Suddenly Be Made; Nor Is Superior Knowledge Of Much Effect, Where Every Man Resolves To Use His Own Eyes And His Own Judgment, And Every One Applauds His Own Dexterity And Diligence, In Proportion As He Becomes Rich Sooner Than His Neighbour.