Yet Reason Frowns In War's Unequal Game,

You May Abuse A Tragedy, Though You Cannot Write One. You May Scold A Carpenter Who Has Made You A Bad Table, Though You Cannot Make A Table. It Is Not Your Trade To Make Tables.

So Scanty Is Our Present Allowance Of Happiness That In Many Situations Life Could Scarcely Be Supported If Hope Were Not Allowed To Relieve The Present Hour By Pleasures Borrowed From The Future.

Riches Are Of No Value In Themselves; Their Use Is Discovered Only In That Which They Procure.

If The Guardian Or The Mother Tell The Woes Of Willful Waste, Scorn Their Counsel And Their Pother, You Can Hang Or Drown At Last.

Hope Is Necessary In Every Condition. The Miseries Of Poverty, Of Sickness, Or Captivity, Would, Without This Comfort, Be Insupportable; Nor Does It Appear That The Happiest Lot Of Terrestrial Existence Can Set Us Above The Want Of This General Blessing; Or That Life, When The Gifts Of Nature And Of Fortune Are Accumulated Upon It, Would Not Still Be Wretched, Were It Not Elevated And Delighted By The Expectation Of Some New Possession, Of Some Enjoyment Yet Behind, By Which The Wish Shall At Last Be Satisfied, And The Heart Filled Up To Its Utmost Extent.