Th' Unwilling Gratitude Of Base Mankind!

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.

At Every Trifle Take Offense, That Always Shows Great Pride Or Little Sense.

That Each From Other Differs, First Confess; Next That He Varies From Himself No Less.

To Rest, The Cushion And Soft Dean Invite, Who Never Mentions Hell To Ears Polite.

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.