You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
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.
Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam: Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
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