Astrologers that future fates foreshow.
Monuments, like men, submit to fate.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
A disputant no more cares for the truth than the sportsman for the hare.