Hardly a book of human worth, be it heaven's own secret, is honestly p >>
Though man is the only beast that can write, he has small reason to be >>
To write is a humiliation. >>
It is strange that we do not temper our resentment of criticism with a >>
If all printers were determined not to print anything till they were s >>
For if there is anything to one's praise, it is foolish vanity to be g >>
Hardly a book of human worth, be it heaven's own secret, is honestly placed before the reader; it is either shunned, given a Periclean funeral oration in a hundred and fifty words, or interred in the potter's field of the newspapers back pages.