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Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always To be Blest.

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!

How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?

I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts.

I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

I never knew any man in my life who could not bear another's misfortunes perfectly like a Christian.

I think a good deal may be said to extenuate the fault of bad Poets.

If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.