Unjustly men of nature's laws complain,
As cause of all their misery and pain.
Nothing in nature can afflict them, no;
'Tis their opinion only breeds their woe;
If wretched, that alone hath made him so.
They their own Bridelwel in their breasts do bear,
And their own judge and executioner.
Not death itself (how grim soe'er it seem,)
Is truly terrible, or it had been
As dreadful to great Socrates as thee.
Ev'n his strong soul had shrunk with fear, but he
Out star'd the prejudice, and shew'd 'twas mean,
A notion void of sense, a waking dream,
Such as from ill-digested thoughts doth steam;
A monster, which thou paint'st with hollow eyes
Attended with sad looks, and mournful cries;
A scare-crow, which thine own opinion made,
From this thou fly'st, of this thou art afraid.
When then we meet some check in some design,
When at each little hindrance we repine,
Let's lay the fault at our own doors, and blame
The giddy whimsies which our fancies frame,
Those ill-shap'd Centaurs of a cloudy brain.
To blame another for things manag'd ill,
Things subject to thy pow'r, and sov'reign will,
Shews want of thought, philosophy and skill.
To blame thyself shews thou shalt but begun
The glorious race, nor hast it throughly run;
He that blames neither, only win the prize,
Is justly crown'd by all, is only wise.