I Have Always Considered A

I Am Not Able To Instruct You. I Can Only Tell That I Have Chosen Wrong. I Have Passed My Time In Study Without Experience; In The Attainment Of Sciences Which Can, For The Most Part, Be But Remotely Useful To Mankind. I Have Purchased Knowledge At The Expense Of All The Common Comforts Of Life: I Have Missed The Endearing Elegance Of Female Friendship, And The Happy Commerce Of Domestic Tenderness.

I Have Always Suspected That The Reading Is Right, Which Requires Many Words To Prove It Wrong; And The Emendation Wrong, That Cannot Without So Much Labour Appear To He Right.

It Is Commonly Supposed That The Uniformity Of A Studious Life Affords No Matter For Narration: But The Truth Is, That Of The Most Studious Life A Great Part Passes Without Study. An Author Partakes Of The Common Condition Of Humanity; He Is Born And Married Like Another Man; He Has Hopes And Fears, Expectations And Disappointments, Griefs And Joys, And Friends And Enemies, Like A Courtier Or A Statesman; Nor Can I Conceive Why His Affairs Shuld Not Excite Curiosity As Much As The Whisper Of A Drawing-room, Or The Factions Of A Camp.

The Safe And General Antidote Against Sorrow Is Employment.

The Commodiousness Of Money Is Indeed Great; But There Are Some Advantages Which Money Cannot Buy, And Which Therefore No Wise Man Will By The Love Of Money Be Tempted To Forego.