We consider ourselves as defective in memory, either because we remember less than we desire, or less than we suppose others to remember.

Man alone is born crying, lives complaining, and dies disappointed.

Reason elevates our thoughts as high as the stars, and leads us through the vast space of this mighty fabric; yet it comes far short of the real extent of our corporeal being.

It seems to be remarkable that death increases our veneration for the good, and extenuates our hatred for the bad.

He that pursues fame with just claims, trusts his happiness to the winds; but he that endeavors after it by false merit, has to fear, not only the violence of the storm, but the leaks of his vessel.

Abuse is often of service. There is nothing so dangerous to an author as silence.

On Sir Joshua Reynolds's observing that the real character of a man was found out by his amusements. Yes, Sir, no man is a hypocrite in his pleasures.