As The Faculty Of Writing

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.

It Is The Condition Of Our Present State To See More Than We Can Attain; The Exactest Vigilance And Caution Can Never Maintain A Single Day Of Unmingled Innocence.

When I Find That So Much Of My Life Has Stolen Unprofitably Away, And That I Can Descry By Retrospection Scarcely A Few Single Days Properly And Vigorously Employed, Why Do I Yet Try To Resolve Again? I Try, Because Reformation Is Necessary And Despair Is Criminal. I Try, In Humble Hope Of The Help Of God.

Yet It Is Necessary To Hope, Though Hope Should Always Be Deluded; For Hope Itself Is Happiness, And Its Frustrations, However Frequent, Are Yet Less Dreadsul Than Its Extinction.

If Pleasure Was Not Followed By Pain, Who Would Forbear It?