The Post Of Honour Is A Private

I Consider Time As An In Immense Ocean, In Which Many Noble Authors Are Entirely Swallowed Up.

Honor's A Fine Imaginary Notion, That Draws In Raw And Unexperienced Men To Real Mischiefs.

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.

Should A Writer Single Out And Point His Raillery At Particular Persons, Or Satirize The Miserable, He Might Be Sure Of Pleasing A Great Part Of His Readers, But Must Be A Very Ill Man If He Could Please Himself.

Music Can Noble Hints Impart, Engender Fury, Kindle Love, With Unsuspected Eloquence Can Move, And Manage All The Man With Secret Art.