Nil admirari, prope res est una, Numici!
Solaq; quæ possit facere & servare beatum.

Wonder at nothing, if you'd be at rest,
'Tis that alone can make and keep you blest;
'Faith Horace, thou art right, there's nothing here,
Deserves our Wonder, Hope, or anxious Fear;
Fidelia dying, greets her promis'd Heir,
'You know, Bellmour, you've been my only Care;'
Grasping his Hand, 'You're ever in my Thought,
'God bless the Boy,' but left him not a Groat:
No Doubt her dying Blessing was worth more,
Than cursing him with Trash and worldly Store;
To what an Height in these religious Days,
Will Faith and Piety our Affections raise!
How easy it is when the Case is not our own,
To bid Another trust in God alone.