There May Be Community Of Material Possessions,

Of The Present State, Whatever It Be, We Feel And Are Forced To Confess The Misery; Yet When The Same State Is Again At A Distance, Imagination Paints It As Desirable.

The Future Is Bought With The Present.

Nay, Sir, Those Who Write In Them, Write Well, In Order To Be Paid Well.

Every Man May Be Observed To Have A Certain Strain Of Lamentation, Some Peculiar Theme Of Complaint On Which He Dwells In His Moments Of Dejection.

Modern Writers Are The Moons Of Literature; They Shine With Reflected Light, With Light Borrowed From The Ancients.