Life Is A Pill Which None Of

The Fiction Of Happiness Is Propagated By Every Tongue And Confirmed By Every Look Till At Last All Profess The Joy Which They Do Not Feel And Consent To Yield To The General Delusion.

In Writing, As In Life, Faults Are Endured Without Disgust When They Are Associated With Transcendent Merit, And May Be Sometimes Recommended To Weak Judgments By The Lustre Which They Obtain From Their Union With Excellence; But It Is The Business Of Those Who Presume To Superintend The Taste Or Morals Of Mankind To Separate Delusive Combinations, And Distinguish That Which May Be Praised From That Which Can Only Be Excused.

[w]ith An Unquiet Mind, Neither Exercise, Nor Diet, Nor Physick Can Be Of Much Use.

Our Minds, Like Our Bodies, Are In Continual Flux; Something Is Hourly Lost, And Something Acquired.... Do Not Suffer Life To Stagnate; It Will Grow Muddy For Want Of Motion: Commit Yourself Again To The Current Of The World.

Cautious Age Suspects The Flattering Form, And Only Credits What Experience Tells.