To Me - The Choice Of Life

There Is Scarcely Any Writer Who Has Not Celebrated The Happiness Of Rural Privacy, And Delighted Himself And His Reader With The Melody Of Birds, The Whisper Of Groves, And The Murmur Of Rivulets.

A Fly, Sir, May Sting A Stately Horse And Make Him Wince; But, One Is But An Insect, And The Other Is A Horse Still.

All Discourse Of Which Others Cannot Partake Is Not Only An Irksome Usurpation Of The Time Devoted To Pleasure And Entertainment, But, What Never Fails To Excite Resentment, An Insolent Assertion Of Superiority, And A Triumph Over Less Enlightened Understandings. The Pedant Is, Therefore, Not Only Heard With Weariness But Malignity; And Those Who Conceive Themselves Insulted By His Knowledge Never Fail To Tell With Acrimony How Injudiciously It Was Exerted.

We Love To Expect, And When Expectation Is Either Disappointed Or Gratified, We Want To Be Again Expecting.

The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked By Violence Together; Nature And Art Are Ransacked For Illustrations, Comparisons, And Allusions; Their Learning Instructs, And Their Subtlety Surprises; But The Reader Commonly Thinks His Improvement Dearly Bought And, Though He Sometimes Admires, Is Seldom Pleased.