This Long Disease, My Life.

Some Judge Of Authors' Names, Not Works, And Then Nor Praise Nor Blame The Writings, But The Men.

Wise Wretch! With Pleasures Too Refined To Please, With Too Much Spirit To Be E'er At Ease, With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught, With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought: You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give, And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Some People Will Never Learn Anything, For This Reason, Because They Understand Everything Too Soon.

All Nature's Diff'rence Keeps All Nature's Peace.

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought.