While an author is yet living, we estimate his powers by his worst performance; and when he is dead, we rate him by his best.

The authors that in any nation last from age to age are very few, because there are very few that have any other claim to notice than that they catch hold on present curiosity, and gratify some accidental desire, or produce some temporary conveniency.

As peace is the end of war, so to be idle is the ultimate purpose of the busy.

Mutual cowardice keeps us in peace.

A successful author is equally in danger of the diminution of his fame, whether he continues or ceases to write. The regard of the public is not to be kept but by tribute, and the remembrance of past service will quickly languish unless successive performances frequently revive it. Yet in every new attempt there is new hazard, and there are few who do not, at some unlucky time, injure their own characters by attempting to enlarge them.

Those whose abilities or knowledge incline them most to deviate from the general round of life are recalled from eccentricity by the laws of their existence.

Age looks with anger on the temerity of youth, and youth with contempt on the scrupulosity of age.