Monuments, Like Men, Submit To Fate.

Such As Are Still Observing Upon Others Are Like Those Who Are Always Abroad At Other Men's Houses, Reforming Everything There While Their Own Runs To Ruin.

You Beat Your Pate, And Fancy Wit Will Come: Knock As You Please, There's No Body At Home.

Thus God And Nature Linked The Gen'ral Frame, And Bade Self-love And Social Be The Same.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast; Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest. The Soul, Uneasy, And Confin'd From Home, Rest And Expatiates In A Life To Come. Lo, The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way; Yet Simple Nature To His Hope Has Giv'n, Behind The Cloud-topp'd Hill, An Humbler Heav'n.

The Cabinets Of The Sick And The Closets Of The Dead Have Been Ransacked To Publish Private Letters And Divulge To All Mankind The Most Secret Sentiments Of Friendship.