Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

Nature delights in progress; in advance.

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom... And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.

Take God from nature, nothing great is left.

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?