Whilst I Yet Live, Let Me Not

A Man Who Has Any Relish For Fine Writing Either Discovers New Beauties Or Receives Stronger Impressions From The Masterly Strokes Of A Great Author Every Time He Peruses Him; Besides That He Naturally Wears Himself Into The Same Manner Of Speaking And Thinking.

The Fashionable World Is Grown Free And Easie; Our Manners Sit More Loose Upon Us: Nothing Is So Modish As An Agreeable Negligence. In A Word, Good Breeding Shows It Self Most, Where To An Ordinary Eye It Appears The Least.

Nothing That Isn't A Real Crime Makes A Man Appear So Contemptible And Little In The Eyes Of The World As Inconsistency.

Should A Writer Single Out And Point His Raillery At Particular Persons, Or Satirize The Miserable, He Might Be Sure Of Pleasing A Great Part Of His Readers, But Must Be A Very Ill Man If He Could Please Himself.

Is It Not Wonderful, That The Love Of The Parent Should Be So Violent While It Lasts And That It Should Last No Longer Than Is Necessary For The Preservation Of The Young?