A Man's Own Heart Must Ever Be

What If In Scotland's Wilds We Viel'd Our Head, Where Tempests Whistle Round The Sordid Bed; Where The Rug's Two-fold Use We Might Display, By Night A Blanket, And A Plaid By Day.

Our Chief Comforts Often Produce Our Greatest Anxieties, And The Increase In Our Possessions Is But An Inlet To New Disquietudes.

There Are Some Faults So Nearly Allied To Excellence That We Can Scarce Weed Out The Vice Without Eradicating The Virtue.

Of Praise A Mere Glutton, He Swallow'd What Came, And The Puff A Dunce, He Mistook It For Fame; Till His Relish Grown Callous, Almost To Displease, Who Pepper'd The Highest Was Surest To Please.

It Is Impossible To Combat Enthusiasm With Reason; For Though It Makes A Show Of Resistance, It Soon Eludes The Pressure, Refers You To Distinctions Not To Be Understood, And Feelings Which It Cannot Explain. A Man Who Would Endeavor To Fix An Enthusiast By Argument Might As Well Attempt To Spread Quicksilver With His Finger.