No Man Is Defeated Without Some Resentment

In A Man's Letters You Know, Madam, His Soul Lies Naked, His Letters Are Only The Mirrour Of His Breast.

Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

When I Find That So Much Of My Life Has Stolen Unprofitably Away, And That I Can Descry By Retrospection Scarcely A Few Single Days Properly And Vigorously Employed, Why Do I Yet Try To Resolve Again? I Try, Because Reformation Is Necessary And Despair Is Criminal. I Try, In Humble Hope Of The Help Of God.

Gloomy Calm Of Idle Vacancy.

As Every One Is Pleased With Imagining That He Knows Something Not Yet Commonly Divulged, Secret History Easily Gains Credit; But It Is For The Most Part Believed Only While It Circulates In Whispers, And When Once It Is Openly Told, Is Openly Refuted.