Hope Travels Through, Nor Quits Us When

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast; Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest. The Soul, Uneasy, And Confin'd From Home, Rest And Expatiates In A Life To Come. Lo, The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way; Yet Simple Nature To His Hope Has Giv'n, Behind The Cloud-topp'd Hill, An Humbler Heav'n.

Every Man Has Just As Much Vanity As He Wants Understanding.

Who Pants For Glory, Finds But Short Repose; A Breath Revives Him, Or A Breath O'erthrows.

Those Oft Are Stratagems Which Errors Seem Nor Is It Homer Nods, But We That Dream.

The Same Ambition Can Destroy Or Save, And Make A Patriot As It Makes A Knave.