Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And

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.

Excise: A Hateful Tax Levied Upon Commodities, And Adjudged Not By The Common Judges Of Property, But Wretches Hired By Those To Whom Excise Is Paid.

The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By Violence Together; Nature And Art Are Ransacked For Illustrations, Comparisons, And Allusions; Their Learning Instructs, And Their Subtlety Surprises; But The Reader Commonly Thinks His Improvement Dearly Bought And, Though He Sometimes Admires, Is Seldom Pleased.

I Am A Hardened And Shameless Tea Drinker, Who Has, For Twenty Years, Diluted His Meals With Only The Infusion Of This Fascinating Plant; Whose Kettle Has Scarcely Time To Cool; Who With Tea Amuses The Evening, With Tea Solaces The Midnight, And, With Tea, Welcomes The Morning.

New Arts Are Long In The World Before Poets Describe Them; For They Borrow Everything From Their Predecessors, And Commonly Derive Very Little From Nature Or From Life.