Whatever You Have Spend Less.

Hope Itself Is A Species Of Happiness, And, Perhaps, The Chief Happiness Which This World Affords; But, Like All Other Pleasures Immoderately Enjoyed, The Excesses Of Hope Must Be Expiated By Pain.

I Wish There Were Some Cure, Like The Lover's Leap, For All Heads Of Which Some Single Idea Has Obtained An Unreasonable And Irregular Possession.

A Successful Author Is Equally In Danger Of The Diminution Of His Fame, Whether He Continues Or Ceases To Write. The Regard Of The Public Is Not To Be Kept But By Tribute, And The Remembrance Of Past Service Will Quickly Languish Unless Successive Performances Frequently Revive It. Yet In Every New Attempt There Is New Hazard, And There Are Few Who Do Not, At Some Unlucky Time, Injure Their Own Characters By Attempting To Enlarge Them.

There Is In This World No Real Delight (excepting Those Of Sensuality), But Exchange Of Ideas In Conversation.

Sorrow Is The Mere Rust Of The Soul. Activity Will Cleanse And Brighten It.