Royal Benevolence A poem. Most humbly Address'd to her Majesty Queen Caroline. As it was Presented to the said Queen's Majesty, by the Author, On Friday, the 2nd of October, 1730. at Windsor-Castle. To which is annexed, A poem on providence. Both written by Stephen Duck |
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On PROVIDENCE.
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On PROVIDENCE.
Could Mortals taste of heavenly Bliss and Joy,
The Rapture would the human Frame destroy:
Our little Minds, tost with perpetual Cares,
Are lost, when Grief or Joy comes unawares.
Excess shakes Nature, but Viciffitude
In Moderation is an Interlude,
When right apply'd to all our humane Good.
The Rapture would the human Frame destroy:
Our little Minds, tost with perpetual Cares,
Are lost, when Grief or Joy comes unawares.
Excess shakes Nature, but Viciffitude
In Moderation is an Interlude,
When right apply'd to all our humane Good.
I, who have labour'd in a Threshing-floor,
Was once contented in my State, tho' poor:
Yet, like all Mortals, still I pray'd for Ease,
But labour'd still, like the industrious Bees;
Knowing the Winter comes, when Food is dear,
And Nature wants Supplies of wholesome Cheer.
Justly to think is Happiness on Earth,
And cheerful Thoughts at Labour is sound Mirth.
I, who have labour'd for a trifling Sum,
Was pleas'd, to think the time of Pay was come.
One Shilling goes for this, and one for that,
And still the Flail went patt and patt a-patt.
The Wife would say, How can you be content?
I know not how to pay your Quarter's Rent.
I bid her look on Birds in Bushes there,
And see the little silly Insect here;
Behold the Order of the Universe,
And ask the Hen and Chickens for a Purse.
She talk'd, like Woman, guided by a Will,
Who nothing knew of real Good or Ill:
But when she had the Course of Things survey'd,
She own'd, what all must own, Heaven sends its Aid.
To all its Creatures, Reason and Instinct join,
And both, with Care, compleat our God's Design.
A virtuous Man may various Troubles find,
But still the greatest Trouble's in the Mind.
The Death of Friends affects us—Poor, we pine;
But could we see our Maker's great Design,
There's some good End, and something that's Divine.
Was once contented in my State, tho' poor:
Yet, like all Mortals, still I pray'd for Ease,
But labour'd still, like the industrious Bees;
Knowing the Winter comes, when Food is dear,
And Nature wants Supplies of wholesome Cheer.
Justly to think is Happiness on Earth,
And cheerful Thoughts at Labour is sound Mirth.
I, who have labour'd for a trifling Sum,
Was pleas'd, to think the time of Pay was come.
One Shilling goes for this, and one for that,
And still the Flail went patt and patt a-patt.
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I know not how to pay your Quarter's Rent.
I bid her look on Birds in Bushes there,
And see the little silly Insect here;
Behold the Order of the Universe,
And ask the Hen and Chickens for a Purse.
She talk'd, like Woman, guided by a Will,
Who nothing knew of real Good or Ill:
But when she had the Course of Things survey'd,
She own'd, what all must own, Heaven sends its Aid.
To all its Creatures, Reason and Instinct join,
And both, with Care, compleat our God's Design.
A virtuous Man may various Troubles find,
But still the greatest Trouble's in the Mind.
The Death of Friends affects us—Poor, we pine;
But could we see our Maker's great Design,
There's some good End, and something that's Divine.
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