O! How Short A Time Does It

The Laws Of Custom Make Our [returning A Visit] Necessary. O How I Hate This Vile Custom Which Obliges Us To Make Slaves Of Ourselves! To Sell The Most Precious Property We Boast, Our Time;--and To Sacrifice It To Every Prattling Impertinent Who Chooses To Demand It!

You Must Learn Not Only To Judge But To Act For Yourself.

There's No Nation Under The Sun Can Beat The English For Ill-politeness: For My Part, I Hate The Very Sight Of Them; And So I Shall Only Just Visit A Person Of Quality Or Two Of My Particular Acquaintance, And Then I Shall Go Back Again To France.

I Have This Very Moment Finished Reading A Novel Called The Vicar Of Wakefield [by Oliver Goldsmith].... It Appears To Me, To Be Impossible Any Person Could Read This Book Through With A Dry Eye And Yet, I Don't Much Like It.... There Is But Very Little Story, The Plot Is Thin, The Incidents Very Rare, The Sentiments Uncommon, The Vicar Is Contented, Humble, Pious, Virtuous--but Upon The Whole The Book Has Not At All Satisfied My Expectations.

No Man Is In Love When He Marries. He May Have Loved Before; I Have Even Heard He Has Sometimes Loved After: But At The Time Never. There Is Something In The Formalities Of The Matrimonial Preparations That Drive Away All The Little Cupidons.