To each his suff'rings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.

Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

Rich with the spoils of time.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.