Offend Her, And She Knows Not To

All Other Goods By Fortune's Hand Are Given, A Wife Is The Peculiar Gift Of Heaven.

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.

Pride Is Still Aiming At The Best Houses: Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods. Aspiring To Be Gods, If Angels Fell; Aspiring To Be Angels Men Rebel.

When Much Dispute Has Past, We Find Our Tenets Just The Same As Last.

All Nature Is But Art Unknown To Thee.