The Paths Of Glory Lead But To

If The Best Man's Faults Were Written On His Forehead, He Would Draw His Hat Over His Eyes.

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!

The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, / The Simplest Note That Swells The Gale, / The Common Sun, The Air, And Skies, / To Him Are Opening Paradise.

Where Once My Careless Childhood Strayed, / A Stranger Yet To Pain.

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.