What Is Easy Is Seldom Excellent.

Wheresoe'er I Turn My View, All Is Strange, Yet Nothing New: Endless Labor All Along, Endless Labor To Be Wrong: Phrase That Time Has Flung Away; Uncouth Words In Disarray, Trick'd In Antique Ruff And Bonnet, Ode, And Elegy, And Sonnet.

Corneille Is To Shakespeare As A Clipped Hedge Is To A Forest.

The Traveler That Resolutely Follows A Rough And Winding Path Will Sooner Reach The End Of His Journey Than He That Is Always Changing His Direction, And Wastes The Hour Of Daylight In Looking For Smoother Ground And Shorter Passages.

No Wonder, Sir, That He Is Vain; A Man Who Is Perpetually Flattered In Every Mode That Can Be Conceived. So Many Bellows Have Blown The Fire, That One Wonders He Is Not By This Time Become A Cinder.

There Are Goods So Opposed That We Cannot Seize Both, But, By Too Much Prudence, May Pass Between Them At Too Great A Distance To Reach Either.