Indolence Is The Devil's Cushion.

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.

Every Man Is, Or Hopes To Be, An Idler.

Let Observation With Extensive View, Survey Mankind From China To Peru; Remark Each Anxious Toil, Each Eager Strife, And Watch The Busy Scenes Of Crowded Life.

What Is Easy Is Seldom Excellent.

I Respect Millar, Sir: He Has Raised The Price Of Literature.