There Is Not A More Melancholy Object

There Is A Kind Of Grandeur And Respect Which The Meanest And Most Insignificant Part Of Mankind Endeavor To Procure In The Little Circle Of Their Friends And Acquaintance. The Poorest Mechanic, Nay, The Man Who Lives Upon Common Alms, Gets Him His Set Of Admirers, And Delights In That Superiority Which He Enjoys Over Those Who Are In Some Respects Beneath Him. This Ambition, Which Is Natural To The Soul Of Man, Might, Methinks, Receive A Very Happy Turn; And, If It Were Rightly Directed, Contribute As Much To A Person's Advantage, As It Generally Does To His Uneasiness And Disquiet.

There Are Many More Shining Qualities In The Mind Of Man, But There Is None So Useful As Discretion.

Reading Is To The Mind, What Exercise Is To The Body. As By The One, Health Is Preserved, Strengthened, And Invigorated: By The Other, Virtue (which Is The Health Of The Mind) Is Kept Alive, Cherished, And Confirmed.

Life Is Not Long Enough For A Coquette To Play All Her Tricks In.

A Man Who Has Any Relish For Fine Writing Either Discovers New Beauties Or Receives Stronger Impressions From The Masterly Strokes Of A Great Author Every Time He Peruses Him; Besides That He Naturally Wears Himself Into The Same Manner Of Speaking And Thinking.