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'Tis this constraint makes half life's misery. 'Tis a false rule: we do too much regard Others' opinions, but neglect their feelings; Thrice happy if such order were reversed. Oh why do we make sorrow for ourselves, And, not content with the great wretchedness Which is our native heritage—those ills We have no mastery over—sickness, toil, Death, and the natural grief which comrades death— Are not all these enough, that we must add Mutual and moral torment, and inflict Ingenious tortures we must first contrive? I am distrustful—I have been deceived And disappointed—I have hoped in vain. I am vain—praise is opium, and the lip Cannot resist the fascinating draught,