The Love Of Letters Is The Forlorn

Those Who Can Command Themselves Command Others.

While We Desire, We Do Not Enjoy; And With Enjoyment Desire Ceases.

It [will-making] Is The Latest Opportunity We Have Of Exercising The Natural Perversity Of The Disposition. This Last Act Of Our Lives Seldom Belies The Former Tenor Of Them For Stupidity, Caprice, And Unmeaning Spite. All That We Seem To Think Of Is To Manage Matters So (in Settling Accounts With Those Who Are So Unmannerly As To Survive Us) As To Do As Little Good, And To Plague And Disappoint As Many People, As Possible.

We Are Never So Much Disposed To Quarrel With Others As When We Are Dissatisfied With Ourselves.

If Our Hours Were All Serene, We Might Probably Take Almost As Little Note Of Them As The Dial Does Of Those That Are Clouded.