Virtue Is Too Often Merely Local.

Sorrow Is A Kind Of Rust Of The Soul, Which Every New Idea Contributes In Its Passage To Scour Away. It Is The Putrefaction Of Stagnant Life, And Is Remedied By Exercise And Motion.

The Civilities Of The Great Are Never Thrown Away.

In All Political Regulations, Good Cannot Be Complete, It Can Only Be Predominant.

The Difference Between Coarse And Refined Abuse Is The Difference Between Being Bruised By A Club And Wounded By A Poisoned Arrow.

False Taste Is Always Busy To Mislead Those That Are Entering Upon The Regions Of Learning; And The Traveller, Uncertain Of His Way, And Forsaken By The Sun, Will Be Pleased To See A Fainter Orb Arise On The Horizon, That May Rescue Him From Total Darkness, Though With Weak And Borrowed Lustre.