For Who Is Pleased With Himself.

It Is Easy For A Man Who Sits Idle At Home, And Has Nobody To Please But Himself, To Ridicule Or Censure The Common Practices Of Mankind.

Bashfulness May Sometimes Exclude Pleasure, But Seldom Opens Any Avenue To Sorrow Or Remorse.

I Am Always Sorry When Any Language Is Lost, Because Languages Are The Pedigrees Of Nations.

The Friendship Which Is To Be Practised Or Expected By Common Mortals, Must Take Its Rise From Mutual Pleasure, And Must End When The Power Ceases Of Delighting Each Other.

Terrestrial Happiness Is Of Short Duration. The Brightness Of The Flame Is Wasting Its Fuel; The Fragrant Flower Is Passing Away In Its Own Odors.