To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, who never mentions hell to ears polite.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

Beauty draws us with a single hair.

Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?

A God without dominion, providence, and final causes, is nothing else but fate and nature.

Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.