Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

He That Floats Lazily Down The Stream, In Pursuit Of Something Borne Along By The Same Current, Will Find Himself Indeed Moved Forward; But Unless He Lays His Hand To The Oar, And Increases His Speed By His Own Labour, Must Be Always At The Same Distance From That Which He Is Following.

Hope Is Itself A Species Of Happiness.

The Hapless Wit Has His Labors Always To Begin, The Call For Novelty Is Never Satisfied, And One Jest Only Raises Expectation Of Another.

Many Falsehoods Are Passing Into Uncontradicted History.

Some Have Little Power To Do Good, And Have Likewise Little Strength To Resist Evil.