As no man sets up marks that he may miss,
So no such real thing as ill there is:
For should we grant that ought in nature's ill,
'Twould argue cruelty, and want of skill
In the great artist, who all-wise and kind,
Nothing that is not for thy good design'd,
Nothing to grieve, or to torment thy mind.
This you think wisely answer'd, when you say,
'Suppose a ruffian beat me on the way,
Or force me publickly in open street,
To take a kick from ev'ry slave I meet.
Unjust the violence, nor can I bear
Such an affront: I must be angry here:
Ev'n you'll acknowledge this to be an ill:'
Thus you remain in your old error still.
I thought that we had clear'd that point before
With such plain proof, that it requir'd nor more;
I shew'd you 'twas no ill, and bid you blame
False notions, the base issue of your brain,
You're angry at the man who did expose
Your body to the injury of blows,
And yet expose your mind to grief and pain,
As oft as any railer's pleas'd to stain
With vile reproach the beauty of your name.
Judge then yourself, but judge impartially,
Who's guilty of the greater injury,
Since you expose your mind, your body he.
To grieve, be angry, envy, or to hate,
Are ills indeed, but such as you create:
For these let not kind nature be arraign'd,
You, only you are to be justly blam'd.
Wherefore in ev'ry thing you undertake,
Let judgment fit, and just inquiry make
Of all preliminaries leading to
The action, which you have design'd to do;
Of ev'ry consequence and accident,
That probably may wait on the event.
Be sure that you can bear it, though it be
Reproach, or blows, or death, with bravery;
Which if you carelessly neglect to weigh,
Though brisk and vig'rous at the first essay,
You'll meet some shameful hindrance by the way.