There Is Nothing, Sir, Too Little For

Pride Is A Vice, Which Pride Itself Inclines Every Man To Find In Others, And To Overlook In Himself

These Papers Of The Day Have Uses More Adequate To The Purposes Of Common Life Than More Pompous And Durable Volumes.

We May Have Uneasy Feelings For Seeing A Creature In Distress Without Pity; For We Have Not Pity Unless We Wish To Relieve Them.

The Purpose Of A Writer Is To Be Read, And The Criticism Which Would Destroy The Power Of Pleasing Must Be Blown Aside

Yet Reason Frowns In War's Unequal Game, Where Wasted Nations Raise A Single Name; And Mortgag'd States Their Grandsire's Wreaths Regret, From Age To Age In Everlasting Debt; Wreaths Which At Last The Dear-bought Right Convey To Rust On Medals, Or On Stones Decay.