Those Who Have No Power To Judge

Many Causes May Vitiate A Writer's Judgement Of His Own Works. On That Which Has Cost Him Much Labour He Sets A High Value, Because He Is Unwilling To Think That He Has Been Diligent In Vain: What Has Been Produced Without Toilsome Efforts Is Considered With Delight As A Proof Of Vigorous Faculties And Fertile Invention; And The Last Work, Whatever It Be, Has Necessarily Most Of The Grace Of Novelty.

The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By Violence Together.

Condemned To Hope's Delusive Mine, As On We Toil From Day To Day, By Sudden Blasts Or Slow Decline Our Social Comforts Drop Away.

There Are Some Works Which The Authors Must Consign Unpublished To Posterity, However Uncertain Be The Event, However Hopeless Be The Trust. He That Writes The History Of His Own Times, If He Adhere Steadily To Truth, Will Write That Which His Own Times Will Not Easily Endure. He Must Be Content To Reposite His Book Till All Private Passions Shall Cease, And Love And Hatred Give Way To Curiosity.

But, Perhaps, The Flatterer Is Not Often Detected; For An Honest Mind Is Not Apt To Suspect, And No One Exerts The Power Of Discernment With Much Vigour When Selflove Favors The Deceit.