The True Art Of Memory Is The

I Know Not, Madam, That You Have A Right, Upon Moral Principles, To Make Your Readers Suffer So Much.

To Live Without Feeling Or Exciting Sympathy, To Be Fortunate Without Adding To The Felicity Of Others, Or Afflicted Without Tasting The Balm Of Pity, Is A State More Gloomy Than Solitude; It Is Not Retreat, But Exclusion From Mankind. Marriage Has Many Pains, But Celibacy Has No Pleasures.

There Is Nothing So Minute, Or Inconsiderable, That I Would Not Rather Know It Than Not.

In Order That All Men May Be Taught To Speak Truth, It Is Necessary That All Likewise Should Learn To Hear It; For No Species Of Falsehood Is More Frequent Than Flattery, To Which The Coward Is Betrayed By Fear, The Dependent By Interest, And The Friend By Tenderness: Those Who Are Neither Servile Nor Timorous Are Yet Desirous To Bestow Pleasure; And, While Unjust Demands Of Praise Continue To Be Made, There Will Always Be Some Whom Hope, Fear, Or Kindness Will Dispose To Pay Them.

The Faults Of A Man Loved Or Honoured Sometimes Steal Secretly And Imperceptibly Upon The Wise And Virtuous, But By Injudicious Fondness Or Thoughtless Vanity Are Adopted With Design.