To Dread No Eye And To Suspect

The Size Of A Man's Understanding Might Always Be Justly Measured By His Mirth.

Paradise Lost Is A Book That, Once Put Down, Is Very Hard To Pick Up Again.

It Was The Peculiar Artifice Of Habit Not To Suffer Her Power To Be Felt At First. Those Whom She Led, She Had The Address Of Appearing Only To Attend, But Was Continually Doubling Her Chains Upon Her Companions; Which Were So Slender In Themselves, And So Silently Fastened, That While The Attention Was Engaged By Other Objects, They Were Not Easily Perceived. Each Link Grew Tighter As It Had Been Longer Worn; And When By Continual Additions They Became So Heavy As To Be Felt, They Were Very Frequently Too Strong To Be Broken.

No People Can Be Great Who Have Ceased To Be Virtuous.

If An Author Be Supposed To Involve His Thoughts In Voluntary Obscurity, And To Obstruct, By Unnecessary Difficulties, A Mind Eager In The Pursuit Of Truth; If He Writes Not To Make Others Learned, But To Boast The Learning Which He Possesses Himself, And Wishes To Be Admired Rather Than Understood, He Counteracts The First End Of Writing, And Justly Suffers The Utmost Severity Of Censure, Or The More Afflicting Severity Of Neglect.