To Hear Complaints With Patience, Even When

Health Is Certainly More Valuable Than Money, Because It Is By Health That Money Is Procured.

When A Friend Is Carried To His Grave, We At Once Find Excuses For Every Weakness, And Palliation Of Every Fault. We Recollect A Thousand Endearments, Which Before Glided Off Our Minds Without Impression, A Thousand Favors Unrepaid, A Thousand Duties Unperformed; And Wish, Vainly Wish, For His Return, Not So Much That We May Receive As That We May Bestow Happiness, And Recompense That Kindness Which Before We Never Understood.

The Trade Of Advertising Is Now So Near To Perfection That It Is Not Easy To Propose Any Improvement. But As Every Art Ought To Be Exercized In Due Subordination To The Public Good, I Cannot But Propose It As A Moral Question To These Masters Of The Public Ear, Whether They Do Not Sometimes Play Too Wantonly With Our Passions.

How Small Of All That Human Hearts Endure, That Part Which Laws Or Kings Can Cause Or Cure! Still To Ourselves In Every Place Consigned, Our Own Felicity We Make Or Find. With Secret Course, Which No Loud Storms Annoy, Glides The Smooth Current Of Domestic Joy.

Sorrow Is Properly That State Of The Mind In Which Our Desires Are Fixed Upon The Past Without Looking Forward To The Future.