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 I. 
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 V. 
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 VIII. 
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This hope is earth's most estimable prize:
This is man's portion, while no more than man:
Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here;
Passions of prouder name befriend us less.
Joy has her tears; and Transport has her death:
Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong,
Man's heart at once inspirits and serenes;
Nor makes him pay his wisdom for his joys.
'Tis all our present state can safely bear,—
Health to the frame, and vigour to the mind!
A joy attemper'd, a chastised delight!
Like the fair summer evening, mild and sweet!
'Tis man's full cup, his Paradise below!