The Lot Of Man - To Suffer

Love, Hope, And Joy, Fair Pleasure's Smiling Train, Hate, Fear, And Grief, The Family Of Pain, These Mix'd With Art, And To Due Bounds Confin'd Make And Maintain The Balance Of The Mind.

True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dress'd What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Express'd; Something Whose Truth Convinced At Sight We Find, That Gives Us Back The Image Of Our Mind. As Shades More Sweetly Recommend The Light, So Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit.

The Finest Minds, Like The Finest Metals, Dissolve The Easiest.

In Vain Sedate Reflections We Would Make When Half Our Knowledge We Must Snatch, Not Take.

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.