In a Man's Letters you know, Madam, his soul lies naked, his letters are only the mirrour of his breast.

A blaze first pleases and then tires the sight.

In misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely want retir'd to die.

He that has too much to do will do something wrong.

In this work are exhibited, in a very high degree, the two most engaging powers of an author. New things are made familiar, and familiar things are made new.

No man is defeated without some resentment which will be continued with obstinacy while he believes himself in the right, and asserted with bitterness, if even to his own conscience he is detected in the wrong.

Men are most powerfully affected by those evils which themselves feel, or which appear before their own eyes.