To A Poet Nothing Can Be Useless.

It Matters Not How A Man Dies, But How He Lives.

Was There Ever Yet Anything Written By Mere Man That Was Wished Longer By Its Readers, Excepting Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, And The Pilgrim's Progress?

Truth, Sir, Is A Cow Which Will Yield Such People No More Milk, And So They Are Gone To Milk The Bull.

Before Dinner Men Meet With Great Inequality Of Understanding; And Those Who Are Conscious Of Their Inferiority Have The Modesty Not To Talk; When They Have Drunk Wine, Every Man Feels Himself Happy, And Loses That Modesty, And Grows Impudent And Vociferous; But He Is Not Improved; He Is Only Not Sensible Of His Defects.

Idleness Is Often Covered By Turbulence And Hurry. He That Neglects His Known Duty And Real Employment Naturally Endeavours To Crowd His Mind With Something That May Bar Out The Remembrance Of His Own Folly, And Does Any Thing But What He Ought To Do With Eager Diligence, That He May Keep Himself In His Own Favour.