Classic Poem

What you have said, I grant is true,
Reason our Passions should subdue,
But while the Soul and Body join,
Who can their Sense so much refine,
As not to know the Pain they feel,
When crush'd beneath Ill-fortune's Wheel?
In vain, alas! the Stoicks plate
Of Indolence, and Braving Fate:
'Tis all at best but canting Noise,
Feign'd Virtue, and affected Joys;
Their perfect Men as fictions are,
As Centauis or Chimera's were:
Sole Reason can't such Wonders do,
Nor Nature's Realm such Creatures shew:
Tho' Resolution be severe,
Yet humane Frailty will appear,
And clog the Mind with Hope and Fear.

Howe'er if we preserve a Mien
In Grief, as well as Joy, serene;
Alas! we presently grow vain,
And think we do the Goal attain:
When we, in Truth, but well conceal
Those Ills we care not to reveal.

She then must be esteem'd most wise,
Whose Hopes on Providence relie's;
Who does her Fraities understand,
And can her Passions best command.

But for the Rest, 'tis all in vain
To imitate what Stoicks feign:
Perfection owes to Heaven it's Birth,
And ne'er but once was seen on Earth.