There Is No Virtue So Truly Great

The Lives Of Great Men Cannot Be Writ With Any Tolerable Degree Of Elegance Or Exactness Within A Short Time After Their Decease.

When I Read The Epitaphs Of The Beautiful, Every Inordinate Desire Goes Out; When I Meet With The Grief Of Parents Upon A Tombstone, My Heart Melts With Compassion; When I See The Tomb Of The Parents Themselves, I Consider The Vanity Of Grieving For Those Whom We Must Quickly Follow: When I See Kings Lying By Those Who Deposed Them, When I Consider Rival Wits Placed Side By Side, Or The Holy Men That Divided The World With Their Contests And Disputes, I Reflect With Sorrow And Astonishment On The Little Competitions, Factions, And Debates Of Mankind.

Most Of The Trades, Professions, And Ways Of Living Among Mankind, Take Their Original Either From The Love Of The Pleasure, Or The Fear Of Want. The Former, When It Becomes Too Violent, Degenerates Into Luxury, And The Latter Into Avarice.

There Is Not Any Present Moment That Is Unconnected With Some Future One. The Life Of Every Man Is A Continued Chain Of Incidents, Each Link Of Which Hangs Upon The Former.

Temperance Gives Nature Her Full Play, And Enables Her To Exert Herself In All Her Force And Vigor.