The First Blow Is Half The Battle.

To Make A Fine Gentleman, Several Trades Are Required, But Chiefly A Barber.

True Genius Walks Along A Line, And, Perhaps, Our Greatest Pleasure Is In Seeing It So Often Near Falling, Without Being Ever Actually Down.

Thus 'tis With All; Their Chief And Constant Care Is To Seem Everything But What They Are.

Friendship Is Made Up Of Esteem And Pleasure; Pity Is Composed Of Sorrow And Contempt: The Mind May For Some Time Fluctuate Between Them, But It Can Never Entertain Both At Once.

Man Little Knows What Calamities Are Beyond His Patience To Bear Till He Tries Them; As In Ascending The Heights Of Ambition, Which Look Bright From Below, Every Step We Rise Shows Us Some New And Gloomy Prospect Of Hidden Disappointment; So In Our Descent From The Summits Of Pleasure, Though The Vale Of Misery Below May Appear, At First, Dark And Gloomy, Yet The Busy Mind, Still Attentive To Its Own Amusement, Finds, As We Descend, Something To Flatter And To Please. Still As We Approach, The Darkest Objects Appear To Brighten, And The Mortal Eye Becomes Adapted To Its Gloomy Situation.