Life Is A Pill Which None Of

Pride Is Seldom Delicate, It Will Please Itself With Very Mean Advantages; And Envy Feels Not Its Own Happiness, But When It May Be Compared With The Misery Of Others

From All Our Observations We May Collect With Certainty, That Misery Is The Lot Of Man, But Cannot Discover In What Particular Condition It Will Find Most Alleviations.

Life Consists Not Of A Series Of Illustrious Actions Or Elegant Enjoyments. The Greater Part Of Our Time Passes In Compliance With Necessities, In The Performance Of Daily Duties, In The Removal Of Small Inconveniences, In The Procurement Of Petty Pleasures; And We Are Well Or Ill At Ease, As The Main Stream Of Life Glides On Smoothly, Or Is Ruffled By Small Obstacles And Frequent Interruption.

As Any Custom Is Disused, The Words That Expressed It Must Perish With It; As Any Opinion Grows Popular, It Will Innovate Speech In The Same Proportion As It Alters Practice.

A Minute Analysis Of Life At Once Destroys That Splendor Which Dazzles The Imagination. Whatsoever Grandeur Can Display, Or Luxury Enjoy, Is Procured By Offices Of Which The Mind Shrinks From The Contemplation. All The Delicacies Of The Table May Be Traced Back To The Shambles And The Dunghill; All Magnificence Of Building Was Hewn From The Quarry, And All The Pomp Of Ornament Dug From Among The Damps And Darkness Of The Mine.