On Wrongs Swift Vengeance Waits.

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.

A Perfect Judge Will Read Each Work Of Wit With The Same Spirit That Its Author Writ: Survey The Whole, Nor Seek Slight Faults To Find Where Nature Moves, And Rapture Warms The Mind.

The Time Shall Come, When, Free As Seas Or Wind, Unbounded Thames Shall Flow For All Mankind, Whole Nations Enter With Each Swelling Tide, And Seas But Join The Regions They Divide; Earth's Distant Ends Our Glory Shall Behold, And The New World Launch Forth To Seek The Old.

Be Silent Always When You Doubt Your Sense.

How Instinct Varies In The Grov'ling Swine.