A Married Man Has Many Cares, But

To Exact Of Every Man Who Writes That He Should Say Something New, Would Be To Reduce Authors To A Small Number; To Oblige The Most Fertile Genius To Say Only What Is New, Would Be To Contract His Volumes To A Few Pages. Yet, Surely, There Ought To Be Some Bounds To Repetition; Libraries Ought No More To Be Heaped For Ever With The Same Thoughts Differently Expressed, Than With The Same Books Differently Decorated.

He Is A Benefactor Of Mankind Who Contracts The Great Rules Of Life Into The Short Sentences, That May Be Easily Impressed On The Memory, And So Recur Habitually To The Mind.

Youth Enters The World With Very Happy Prejudices In Her Own Favor. She Imagines Herself Not Only Certain Of Accomplishing Every Adventure, But Of Obtaining Those Rewards Which The Accomplishment May Deserve. She Is Not Easily Persuaded To Believe That The Force Of Merit Can Be Resisted By Obstinacy And Avarice, Or Its Luster Darkened By Envy And Malignity.

There Is Scarcely Any Writer Who Has Not Celebrated The Happiness Of Rural Privacy, And Delighted Himself And His Reader With The Melody Of Birds, The Whisper Of Groves, And The Murmur Of Rivulets.

Nay, Madam, When You Are Declaiming, Declaim; And When You Are Calculating, Calculate.