The Mind Is Ever Ingenious In Making

There Is Nothing So Absurd Or Ridiculous That Has Not At Some Time Been Said By Some Philosopher.

I Hate The French Because They Are All Slaves And Wear Wooden Shoes.

Quality And Title Have Such Allurements That Hundreds Are Ready To Give Up All Their Own Importance, To Cringe, To Flatter, To Look Little, And To Pall Every Pleasure In Constraint, Merely To Be Among The Great, Though Without The Least Hopes Of Improving Their Understanding Or Sharing Their Generosity. They Might Be Happier Among Their Equals.

One Writer, For Instance, Excels At A Plan Or A Title Page, Another Works Away At The Body Of The Book, And A Third Is A Dab At An Index.

But Me, Not Destined Such Delights To Share, My Prime Of Life In Wandering Spent And Care; Impell'd, With Steps Unceasing, To Pursue Some Fleeting Good, That Mocks Me With The View That, Like The Circle Bounding Earth And Skies, Allures From Far, Yet, As I Follow, Flies; My Fortune Leads To Traverse Reams Alone, And Find No Spot Of All The World My Own.