Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.

Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.