So Vast Is Art, So Narrow Human

I Find Myself Hoping A Total End Of All The Unhappy Divisions Of Mankind By Party-spirit, Which At Best Is But The Madness Of Many For The Gain Of A Few.

That Virtue Only Makes Our Bliss Below, And All Our Knowledge Is Ourselves To Know.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

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

'tis Not Enough Your Counsel Still Be True; Blunt Truths More Mischief Than Nice Falsehoods Do.