No Man But A Blockhead

Sir, They Are A Race Of Convicts, And Ought To Be Thankful For Any Thing We Allow Them Short Of Hanging.

Life Of Ages, Richly Poured, Love Of God Unspent And Free, Flowing In The Prophet's Word And The People's Liberty! Never Was To Chosen Race That Unstinted Tide Confined; Thine Is Every Time And Place, Fountain Sweet Of Heart And Mind!

Sorrow Is A Kind Of Rust Of The Soul, Which Every New Idea Contributes In Its Passage To Scour Away. It Is The Putrefaction Of Stagnant Life, And Is Remedied By Exercise And Motion.

The Reciprocal Civility Of Authors Is One Of The Most Risible Scenes In The Farce Of Life.

He That Embarks On The Voyage Of Life Will Always Wish To Advance Rather By The Impulse Of The Wind Than The Strokes Of The Oar; And Many Fold In Their Passage; While They Lie Waiting For The Gale.