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The paſſions are a numerous croud,
Imperious, poſitive, and loud:
Curb theſe licentious ſons of ſtrife;
Hence chiefly riſe the ſtorms of life;
If they grow mutinous and rave,
They are thy maſters, thou their ſlave.
Regard the world with cautious eye,
Nor raiſe your expectation high.
See that the balanc'd ſcales be ſuch,
You neither fear nor hope too much.
For disappointment's not the thing;
'Tis pride and paſſion point the ſting.
Life is a ſea, where ſtorms muſt riſe;
'Tis folly talks of cloudleſs ſkies:
He, who contracts his ſwelling ſail,
Eludes the fury of the gale.
Be ſtill, nor anxious thoughts employ;
Diſtruſt imbitters preſent joy:
On God for all events depend;
You cannot want when God's your friend.
Weigh well your part, and do your beſt;
Leave to your Maker all the reſt.
The hand which form'd thee in the womb,
Guides from the cradle to the tomb.
Can the fond mother ſlight her boy;
Can ſhe forget her prattling joy?
Say then, ſhall Sov'reign Love deſert
The humble and the honeſt heart?
Heav'n may not grant thee all thy mind;
Yer ſay not thou, that Heav'n's unkind.
