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

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!