Time Is, Of All Modes Of Existence,

This World, Where Much Is To Be Done And Little To Be Known.

A Continual Feast Of Commendation Is Only To Be Obtained By Merit Or By Wealth: Many Are Therefore Obliged To Content Themselves With Single Morsels, And Recompense The Infrequency Of Their Enjoyment By Excess And Riot, Whenever Fortune Sets The Banquet Before Them.

The Round Of A Passionate Man's Life Is In Contracting Debts In His Passion, Which His Virtue Obliges Him To Pay. He Spends His Time In Outrage And Acknowledgment, Injury And Reparation.

Such Is The Uncertainty Of Human Affairs, That Security And Despair Are Equal Follies; And As It Is Presumption And Arrogance To Anticipate Triumphs, It Is Weakness And Cowardice To Prog-nosticate Miscarriages.

The Wickedness Of A Loose Or Profane Author Is More Atrocious Than That Of A Giddy Libertine Or Drunken Ravisher, Not Only Because It Extends Its Effects Wider, As A Pestilence That Taints The Air Is More Destructive Than Poison Infused In A Draught, But Because It Is Committed With Cool Deliberation.