How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.
To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.