AN EPISTLE FROM THE AUTHOR TO HIS SISTER,
With the foregoing Soliloquy included.
I
Dear Sister,
If Soliloquy conduce
(Meant, as the Name declares, for private Use)
To your Contentment,—if such Kind of Fruit
Pleases your Taste, you're very welcome to't;
Tho' pluck'd one Day in April from the Ground,
It keeps in Pickle all the Seasons round.
II
'Tis Summer now, and Autumn comes anon;
Winter succeeds, and Spring when that is gone.
But be it Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring,
To nurture Fretting is a simple Thing;
A Weed so useless to the Use of Reason
Can absolutely never be in Season.
III
Without much Nursing that the Weed will grow,
I wish I had some Reason less to know;
Some less to see, how Folly, when it grew
In my own Ground, could cultivate it too,—
Could hedge it round, and cherish, and suppose
That, being mine, the Thistle was a Rose!
IV
You know the Saying, of I know not whom,
“Little Misfortunes serve till greater come;”
And Saying, somewhere met with, I recall,
That “'tis the greatest to have none at all.”
Rare Case, perhaps; they reach, we often see,
All Sorts of Persons,—Him, Her, You, or Me.
V
“This being, then,” Experience says, “the Case,
What Kind of Conduct must a Man embrace?”
My 'Pothecary, as you think, replies:
“Pray take 'em quietly, if you be wise!
Bitter they are, 'tis true, to Flesh and Blood;
But if they were not, they would do no Good.”
VI
One Time, when 'Pothecary Patience found
That his Persuasion got but little Ground,
He call'd in Doctor Gratitude, to try
If his Advice could make me to comply.
“I recommended Patience, Sir,” said he;
“Pray will you speak, for he regards not me.”
VII
“Patience! a Custard-Lid!” said Dr. Grat.;
“His Case wants, plainly, something more than that.
'Tis a good Recipe; but Cure is longer
Than it should be. We must have something stronger.
A creeping Pulse!—Bare Patience will not do;
To get him Strength, he must be thankful too.
VIII
“He must consider,”—and so on he went
To show Thanksgiving's marvellous Extent,
And what a true Catholicon it was;
And what great Cures it had but brought to pass;
And how best Fortunes, wanting it, were curst;
And how it turn'd to good the very worst.
IX
Oh! What a deal he said!—And, in the Light
Wherein he plac'd it, all was really right;
But like good Doctrine of some good Divine,
Which, while 'tis preach'd, is admirably fine,
When Doctor Gratitude had left the Spot,
All that he said was “charming,”—and forgot.
X
Your Doctor's Potion,—Patience and the Bark,—
May hit both mental and material Mark.
One serves to keep the Ague from the Mind,
As t'other does from its corporeal Rind.
There is, methinks, in their respective Growth,
A fair Analogy betwixt 'em both.
XI
For what the Bark is to the growing Tree,
To human Mind that Patience seems to be:
They hold the Principles of Growth together,
And blunt the Force of Accident and Weather;
Bar'd of its Bark, a Tree, we may compute,
Will not remain much longer on its Root.
XII
And Mind in Mortals that are wisely-will'd,
Will hardly bear to have its Patience peel'd.
Nothing, in fine, contributes more to Living,
Physic or Food, than Patience and Thanksgiving.
Patience defends us from all outward Hap;
Of inward Life Thanksgiving is the Sap.
