Of Many, Imagined Blessings It May Be

Solitude Is The Surest Nurse Of All Prurient Passions, And A Girl In The Hurry Of Preparation, Or Tumult Of Gaiety, Has Neither Inclination Nor Leisure To Let Tender Expressions Soften Or Sink Into Her Heart. The Ball, The Show, Are Not The Dangerous Places: No, 'tis The Private Friend, The Kind Consoler, The Companion Of The Easy Vacant Hour, Whose Compliance With Her Opinions Can Flatter Her Vanity, And Whose Conversation Can Sooth, Without Ever Stretching Her Mind, That Is The Lover To Be Feared: He Who Buzzes In Her Ear At Court, Or At The Opera, Must Be Contented To Buzz In Vain.

To Make Dictionaries Is Dull Work.

The Complaint, Therefore, That All Topicks Are Preoccupied, Is Nothing More Than The Murmur Of Ignorance Or Idleness, By Which Some Discourage Others, And Some Themselves; The Mutability Of Mankind Will Always Furnish Writers With New Images, And The Luxuriance Of Fancy May Always Embellish Them With New Decorations.

For Life Affords No Higher Pleasure, Than That Of Surmounting Difficulties, Passing From One Step Of Success To Another, Forming New Wishes And Seeing Them Gratified. He That Labours In Any Great Or Laudable Undertaking, Has His Fatigues First Supported By Hope, And Afterwards Rewarded By Joy... To Strive With Difficulties, And To Conquer Them, Is The Highest Human Felicity.

Man Alone Is Born Crying, Lives Complaining, And Dies Disappointed.