My Death And Life, My Bane And

Contentment Produces, In Some Measure, All Those Effects Which The Alchemist Usually Ascribes To What He Calls The Philosopher's Stone; And If It Does Not Bring Riches, It Does The Same Thing By Banishing The Desire For Them.

The Gods In Bounty Work Up Storms About Us, That Give Mankind Occasion To Exert Their Hidden Strength, And Throw Our Into Practice Virtues That Shun The Day, And Lie Concealed In The Smooth Seasons And The Calms Of Life.

Beauty Commonly Produces Love, But Cleanliness Preserves It. Age Itself Is Not Unamiable While It Is Preserved Clean And Unsullied; Like A Piece Of Metal Constantly Kept Smooth And Bright, We Look On It With More Pleasure Than On A New Vessel Cankered With Rust.

Young Men Soon Give, And Soon Forget, Affronts; Old Age Is Slow In Both.

I Think I May Define Taste To Be That Faculty Of The Soul Which Discerns The Beauties Of An Author With Pleasure, And The Imperfections With Dislike.