Self-love Is A Busy Prompter.

The End Of Writing Is To Instruct; The End Of Poetry Is To Instruct By Pleasing.

An Age That Melts In Unperceiv'd Decay, And Glides In Modest Innocence Away.

Men Who Have Flattered Themselves Into This Opinion Of Their Own Abilities, Look Down On All Who Waste Their Lives Over Books, As A Race Of Inferior Beings Condemned By Nature To Perpetual Pupilage, And Fruitlessly Endeavouring To Remedy Their Barrenness By Incessant Cultivation, Or Succour Their Feebleness By Subsidiary Strength. They Presume That None Would Be More Industrious Than They, If They Were Not More Sensible Of Deficiences; And Readily Conclude, That He Who Places No Confidence In His Own Powers Owes His Modesty Only To His Weakness.

The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By Violence Together.

Those Who Attempt Nothing Themselves Think Every Thing Easily Performed, And Consider The Unsuccessful Always As Criminal.