What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.

But To The World No Bugbear Is So Great, As Want Of Figure And A Small Estate.

There Is But One Way I Know Of Conversing Safely With All Men; That Is, Not By Concealing What We Say Or Do, But By Saying Or Doing Nothing That Deserves To Be Concealed.

Soft O'er The Shrouds Aerial Whispers Breathe, That Seemed But Zephyrs To The Train Beneath.

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.

Tis All In Vain To Keep A Constant Pother About One Vice And Fall Into Another.