The Laughers Are A Majority.

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.

Whate'er The Passion, Knowledge, Fame, Or Pelf, Not One Will Change His Neighbor With Himself.

Dulness! Whose Good Old Cause I Yet Defend, With Whom My Muse Began, With Who Shall End.

Ladies, Like Variegated Tulips, Show 'tis To Their Changes Half Their Charms We Owe.

Be Not The First By Whom The New Are Tried, Nor Yet The Last To Lay The Old Aside.