My Voice Is Still For War.

There Is A Kind Of Grandeur And Respect Which The Meanest And Most Insignificant Part Of Mankind Endeavor To Procure In The Little Circle Of Their Friends And Acquaintance. The Poorest Mechanic, Nay, The Man Who Lives Upon Common Alms, Gets Him His Set Of Admirers, And Delights In That Superiority Which He Enjoys Over Those Who Are In Some Respects Beneath Him. This Ambition, Which Is Natural To The Soul Of Man, Might, Methinks, Receive A Very Happy Turn; And, If It Were Rightly Directed, Contribute As Much To A Person's Advantage, As It Generally Does To His Uneasiness And Disquiet.

Nothing Lies On Our Hands With Such Uneasiness As Time. Wretched And Thoughtless Creatures! In The Only Place Where Covetousness Were A Virtue We Turn Prodigals.

Who Does Not More Admire Cicero As An Author Than As A Consul Of Rome?

Loveliest Of Women! Heaven Is In Thy Soul, Beauty And Virtue Shine Forever Round Thee, Bright'ning Each Other! Thou Art All Divine!

The World Is So Full Of Ill-nature That I Have Lampoons Sent Me By People Who Cannot Spell, And Satires Composed By Those Who Scarce Know How To Write.