Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor and on they go as their fathers went before them till weary and sick at heart they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood.

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

When a new book is published, read an old one.

Then never less alone than when alone.

Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.

When with care we have raised an imaginary treasure of happiness, we find at last that the materials of the structure are frail and perishing, and the foundation itself is laid in the sand.

Gentle to others, to himself severe.