Men Hate More Steadily Than They Love.

No Wonder, Sir, That He Is Vain; A Man Who Is Perpetually Flattered In Every Mode That Can Be Conceived. So Many Bellows Have Blown The Fire, That One Wonders He Is Not By This Time Become A Cinder.

The Only End Of Writing Is To Enable Readers Better To Enjoy Life Or Better To Endure It.

This World, Where Much Is To Be Done And Little To Be Known.

Come, Let Me Know What It Is That Makes A Scotch Man Happy!

Friendship, Like Love, Is Destroyed By Long Absence, Though It May Be Increased By Short Intermissions. What We Have Missed Long Enough To Want It, We Value More When It Is Regained; But That Which Has Been Lost Till It Is Forgotten Will Be Found At Last With Little Gladness, And With Still Less If A Substitute Has Supplied The Place.