None Can Be Pleased Without Praise, And

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.

Books To Judicious Compilers, Are Useful; To Particular Arts And Professions, They Are Absolutely Necessary; To Men Of Real Science, They Are Tools: But More Are Tools To Them.

The Safe And General Antidote Against Sorrow Is Employment.

In A Man's Letters You Know, Madam, His Soul Lies Naked, His Letters Are Only The Mirrour Of His Breast.

It May Be Observed In General That The Future Is Purchased By The Present. It Is Not Possible To Secure Distant Or Permanent Happiness But By The Forbearance Of Some Immediate Gratification. This Is So Evidently True With Regard To The Whole Of Our Existence That All Precepts Of Theology Have No Other Tendency Than To Enforce A Life Of Faith; A Life Regulated Not By Our Senses But By Our Belief; A Life In Which Pleasures Are To Be Refused For Fear Of Invisible Punishments, And Calamities Sometimes To Be Sought, And Always Endured, In Hope Of Rewards That Shall Be Obtained In Another State.