He Who Waits To Do

I Respect Millar, Sir: He Has Raised The Price Of Literature.

Many Of Our Miseries Are Merely Comparative: We Are Often Made Unhappy, Not By The Presence Of Any Real Evil, But By The Absence Of Some Fictitious Good; Of Something Which Is Not Required By Any Real Want Of Nature, Which Has Not In Itself Any Power Of Gratification, And Which Neither Reason Nor Fancy Would Have Prompted Us To Wish, Did We Not See It In The Possession Of Others.

The Certainty That Life Cannot Be Long, And The Probability That It Will Be Much Shorter Than Nature Allows, Ought To Awaken Every Man To The Active Prosecution Of Whatever He Is Desirous To Perform. It Is True, That No Diligence Can Ascertain Success; Death May Intercept The Swiftest Career; But He Who Is Cut Off In The Execution Of An Honest Undertaking Has At Least The Honour Of Falling In His Rank, And Has Fought The Battle, Though He Missed The Victory.

As The Faculty Of Writing Has Chiefly Been A Masculine Endowment, The Reproach Of Making The World Miserable Has Always Been Thrown Upon The Women.

This Merriment Of Parsons Is Mighty Offensive.