Classic Poem

Let not your Choler your Revenge betray,
Its Purpose not to hasten, but delay;
If to Revenge your Wrongs, be your Intent,
Let not your Fury your Revenge prevent,
More to your own, than to your Foes Offence,
Till your strong Passion grows your Impotence,
Both to the Weak'ning of your Pow'r and Sense,
Does you, to your Foe's Fury, more expose,
Till your spight does, your Pow'r to hurt him lose,
Your Sense of Honour, your Dishonour grows,
Your Vengeance, which your Passion does betray,
Fame it shou'd give you, from you takes away;
Nay does, of your Revenge, your Danger grow,
Since Passion does but the Mind's Weakness show,
And to prevent your Vengeance, Warns your Foe;
Ev'n on the Right Side, Passion turns the Blame,
Your Honour's Vindication were your Shame,
You'd lose your Credit so, to right your Fame;
Rage is your Weak Head's Sober Drunkenness,
Which, like Pot-Valour, proves your Courage less;
For Men, with Passion Drunk, as Liquor, show
They Reason, but for Want of Reason, do,
Both to themselves, as to their Injur'd Foe;
No Wise Foes are, of Open Rage, afraid,
Which, of their Opposition, grows their Aid,
By which, less fit for Quarrels, Men are made;
And Men, with Passion Drunk, as shamefully,
As in their Wine, their Reason justifie;
For, if a Man be Mad, 'tis all one sure,
Whether his Madness, Wine, or Rage procure,
Whether 'tis from his Heat of Blood, or Wine,
Which him, to Sensless Actions, does incline;
The Drunkard's Courage, is no more his Praise,
Than his Affront, a Sober Man's Disgrace;
Nor can a Man's Bold Deeds his Honour grow,
When, what he says, or does, he does not know;
As Ill Acts are not, till our Guilt, our Shame,
Good Deeds, when not our selves, can our Good Name,
Procure no more, than can the Bad, our Blame;
Thus, a Man does not Credit get, but lose,
When 'tis the Wine, not he, the Bold Thing does;
Then Man's own Rage, but his own self, does worst,
As their own selves, o'er-heated Canons burst;
He then, whose Mad Rage, Self-destructive Ire,
His Foe's Confusion sooner, wou'd acquire,
Is like him, who sets his own House on Fire,
That he, the Ruine of his Neighbour might
Procure, feels first the Mischief of his Spight,
And vainly makes his Torment, his Delight;
So madly Reason to himself to do,
To Right himself, and save his Honour too,
Shame, Pain, of his own Rage, does undergo;
Suffers his own Revenge upon his Foes,
Till his own Prejudice his Passion grows,
Which, to his Foes, his Weakness does expose;
But sure, True Hatred, like True Love, is Dumb,
To worst our Foes, our Selves we shou'd o'er-come;
Our Passion, its own Disappointment grows,
From our Rage, of their Danger, warns our Foes,
Which we shou'd keep (to make effectual) close;
So, 'tis not the Loud Thunder does the Harm,
But rather, heedless Mortals does Alarm,
Of the Swift Light'ning's Danger, to beware,
Which we most, like a Silent Foe, shou'd fear
The less, its Grumbling Menaces we hear;
But Rage, which Men, with Noise, so fiercely vent,
Frustrates the Mischief of its own Intent,
Out of more Malice, proves most Innocent;
Our Vengeance harmless, from our Passion's made,
Which makes our Wrath our Enemies best Aid;
Who, for our Loud Rage, safer from it are,
For High Words, rather show, than give Men Fear;
Most safely, surely, he his Foes destroys,
Whose Rage, not Him, more than his Foes, annoys;
Wrath, like White-Powder, does its Aim fulfil,
By being in its Execution still,
More surely, with less Noise, or Warning, kill;
Whilst Loud Rage, wou'd but more Alarm its Foe,
To get the Harm, which it design'd to do;
To make its own self but an Instrument,
Its Vengeance, by its Malice, to prevent,
Made, by more Passion, but more Impotent.