Eternity! Thou Pleasing, Dreadful Thought.

Among All Kinds Of Writing, There Is None In Which Authors Are More Apt To Miscarry Than In Works Of Humour, As There Is None In Which They Are More Ambitious To Excel.

It Has Been Said In Praise Of Some Men, That They Could Take Whole Hours Together Upon Anything; But It Must Be Owned To The Honor Of The Other Sex That There Are Many Among Them Who Can Talk Whole Hours Together Upon Nothing. I Have Known A Woman Branch Out Into A Long Extempore Dissertation On The Edging Of A Petticoat, And Chide Her Servant For Breaking A China Cup, In All The Figures Of Rhetoric.

The Greatest Parts, Without Discretion As Observed By An Elegant Writer, May Be Fatal To Their Owner; As Polyphemus, Deprived Of His Eyes, Was Only The More Exposed On Account Of His Enormous Strength And Stature.

Every Wife Ought To Answer For Her Man. If The Husband Be Engaged In A Seditious Club, Or Drinks Mysterious Healths, Or Be Frugal Of His Candles On A Rejoicing Night, Let Her Look To Him And Keep Him Out Of Harm's Way; Or The World Will Be Apt To Say, She Has A Mind To Be A Widow Before Her Time. She Ought, In Such Cases, To Exert The Authority Of The Curtain Lecture; And If She Finds Him Of A Rebellious Disposition, To Tame Him, As They Do Birds Of Prey, By Dinning Him In The Ears All Night Long.

It Is Certain That There Is No Other Passion Which Does Produce Such Contrary Effects In So Great A Degree. But This May Be Said For Love, That If You Strike It Out Of The Soul, Life Would Be Insipid, And Our Being But Half Animated.