All Power Of Fancy Over Reason Is

There Are In Every Age New Errors To Be Rectified And New Prejudices To Be Opposed.

History Can Be Formed From Permanent Monuments And Records; But Lives Can Only Be Written From Personal Knowledge, Which Is Growing Every Day Less, And In A Short Time Is Lost Forever.

There Is Such A Difference Between The Pursuits Of Men In Great Cities That One Part Of The Inhabitants Lives To Little Other Purpose Than To Wonder At The Rest. Some Have Hopes And Fears, Wishes And Aversions, Which Never Enter Into The Thoughts Of Others, And Inquiry Is Laboriously Exerted To Gain That Which Those Who Possess It Are Ready To Throw Away.

Avarice Is Generally The Last Passion Of Those Lives Of Which The First Part Has Been Squandered In Pleasure, And The Second Devoted To Ambition. He That Sinks Under The Fatigue Of Getting Wealth, Lulls His Age With The Milder Business Of Saving It

Works Of Imagination Excel By Their Allurement And Delight; By Their Power Of Attracting And Detaining The Attention. That Book Is Good In Vain Which The Reader Throws Away. He Only Is The Master Who Keeps The Mind In Pleasing Captivity; Whose Pages Are Perused With Eagerness, And In Hope Of New Pleasure Are Perused Again; And Whose Conclusion Is Perceived With An Eye Of Sorrow, Such As The Traveller Casts Upon Departing Day.