Virtue She Finds Too Painful

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.

Heaven Breathes Thro' Ev'ry Member Of The Whole One Common Blessing, As One Common Soul.

Hope Humbly Then; With Trembling Pinions Soar; Wait The Great Teacher, Death, And God Adore; What Future Bliss He Gives Not Thee To Know, But Gives That Hope To Be Thy Blessing Now.

Conceit Is To Nature What Paint Is To Beauty; It Is Not Only Needless, But It Impairs What It Would Improve.

Others Import Yet Nobler Arts From France, Teach Kings To Fiddle, And Make Senates Dance.