We May Take Fancy For A Companion,

Religion Informs Us That Misery And Sin Were Produced Together. The Depravation Of Human Will Was Followed By A Disorder Of The Harmony Of Nature; And By That Providence Which Often Places Antidotes In The Neighborhood Of Poisons, Vice Was Checked By Misery, Lest It Should Swell To Universal And Unlimited Dominion.

To Exact Of Every Man Who Writes That He Should Say Something New, Would Be To Reduce Authors To A Small Number; To Oblige The Most Fertile Genius To Say Only What Is New, Would Be To Contract His Volumes To A Few Pages. Yet, Surely, There Ought To Be Some Bounds To Repetition; Libraries Ought No More To Be Heaped For Ever With The Same Thoughts Differently Expressed, Than With The Same Books Differently Decorated.

He That Resigns His Peace To Little Casualties, And Suffers The Course Of His Life To Be Interrupted For Fortuitous Inadvertencies Or Offences, Delivers Up Himself To The Direction Of The Wind, And Loses All That Constancy And Equanimity Which Constitutes The Chief Praise Of A Wise Man.

Surely Nothing Is More Reproachful To A Being Endowed With Reason, Than To Resign Its Powers To The Influence Of The Air, And Live In Dependence On The Weather And The Wind, For The Only Blessings Which Nature Has Put Into Our Power, Tranquillity And Benevolence. To Look Up To The Sky For The Nutriment Of Our Bodies, Is The Condition Of Nature; To Call Upon The Sun For Peace And Gaiety, Or Deprecate The Clouds Lest Sorrow Should Overwhelm Us, Is The Cowardice Of Idleness, And The Idolatry Of Folly.

No People Can Be Great Who Have Ceased To Be Virtuous.