A
Letter
to
a
Friend
,
on
Occasion
of
some
Libels
written
against
him
.
As
in
some
wealthy
,
trading
Town
,
Where
Riches
raise
to
sure
Renown
,
The
Man
,
with
ample
Sums
in
Store
,
More
than
enough
,
yet
wanting
more
,
Bent
on
Abundance
,
first
secures
His
Rails
,
his
Windows
,
and
his
Doors
,
With
many
a
Chain
,
and
Bolt
,
and
Pin
.
To
keep
Rogues
out
,
and
Riches
in
;
Ranges
his
Iron
Chests
in
View
,
And
paints
his
Window
Bars
with
Blue
;
Discounts
your
Notes
,
receives
your
Rents
,
A
Banker
now
,
to
all
Intents
.
Suppose
his
more
successful
Labours
Should
raise
him
high
above
his
Neighbours
:
As
sure
,
as
if
Apollo
said
it
,
They'll
all
combine
to
blast
his
Credit
:
But
if
,
in
solid
Wealth
secure
,
Their
vain
Assaults
he
can
endure
;
Their
Malice
but
augments
his
Gain
,
And
swells
the
Store
it
meant
to
drain
.
The
Case
in
ev'ry
Point's
the
same
,
In
Funds
of
Wealth
,
and
Funds
of
Fame
:
Tho'
you're
secur'd
by
ev'ry
Fence
Of
solid
Worth
,
and
Wit
,
and
Sense
;
In
vain
are
all
your
utmost
Pains
,
Your
Virtue's
Bars
,
and
Wisdom's
Chains
;
Nor
Worth
,
nor
Wit
,
nor
Sense
,
combin'd
,
Can
bar
the
Malice
of
the
Mind
.
The
firmest
,
and
the
fairest
Fame
Is
ever
Envy's
surest
Aim
:
But
if
it
stand
her
Rage
,
unmov'd
,
Like
Gold
,
in
fiery
Furnace
prov'd
;
Unbiass'd
Truth
,
your
Virtues
Friend
,
Will
more
exalt
you
in
the
End
.