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.

None think the great unhappy, but the great.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.