PATIENCE.

PATIENCE .

CONTENTS .

The difference between suffering and acting well , from their different motives , to verse 15. The best dispositions most susceptible , and therefore most liable to be touch'd with misfortunes . 25. Superior faculties rather exasperate them . 35 , &c. Different degrees of sensibility , and the particular advantages of dulness . 48. The insufficiency of human wisdom . 55. Stoicism meer rant . 78. The happiness of constitution , and the advantages arising from thence , rather than from reason . 86 , &c. What pain , or suffering , properly is . 94. Neither more or less with respect to the evil itself , but only as it regards our sensations . 107 , &c. Therefore , not upon outward accidents , but upon the different degrees of sensibility , depends the whole of pain and pleasure . 133. That providence seems to have dealt out these pretty equally among men . 141. Enquiry into the peculiar advantages of rich and poor . 160. Both equally unhappy . 164. The picture of a discontented poor man . 184 , &c. The picture of a discontented rich man . 210. The folly therefore of envying each other's happiness , since each has his peculiar pains and pleasures . 226 , &c. Enquiry into the ends of afliction . 240. This life a state of probation ; and therefore requires a considerable mixture of affliction , or natural evil , to try and ascertain our virtue . 258. Strong passions require equal severities to awaken the mind ; as gentler methods have the same effects upon milder dispositions . 264 , &c. Afflictions therefore permitted for our real good ; and the right use of them to teach us resignation to That Being , who will compensate our sufferings here with an eternity of happiness hereafter , 290. Conclusion .

Of PATIENCE . An EPISTLE to The Right Honourable Samuel Lord Masham . Patience , my Lord , a virtue rare , I grant ; And what , I fear , the wisest of us want : Easy the task in Action to excell , The soul's last trial lies in suff'ring well . From fear , or shame what specious acts proceed ! And worldly aims oft prompt the shining deed . Look but on half the boasted things we do , And praise , or profit is the point in view . From these , what crops of virtue bless the land ! With these , how oft the mower fills his hand ! Prompted by these the knave we oft regard , While suff'ring virtue is her own reward ; Silent and meek she passes unobserv'd , Nor prais'd by whom she's over-reach'd or starv'd . But granting nobler motives to the few , And same or int'rest not the point in view ; Grant of the wretched's suff'rings we partake , And praise , or pity ev'n for virtue's sake ; Yet that soft temper of the gen'rous mind , That very breast , benevolent and kind , That noble sense , which feels what others feel , Which you , my Lord , who know it , best can tell ; Itself opprest , can least resistance show , But pines , or sinks beneath its proper woe . What tho' in Action brave , unaw'd by fear , Resolv'd as Lieut. General Clayton ; who , after a life spent in the service of his King and Country , into which he enter'd at 17 years old , was at last kill'd by a random ball at the Battle of Dettingen , in his 68th year ; after the defeat of the Enemy , and as he was riding thro' the ranks to encourage the pursuit . He was buried at Hanau , under a triple discharge of cannon , with other military honours due to his distinguish'd merit and character . His personal bravery under the reigns of King William , Queen Anne , and the present Royal Family , is too well known to need a remark ; and his domestic character was so amiable in all its several relations , that I can only express my sense of it in the words of Hamlet , " He was a man , take him for all in all , I shall not look upon his like again . " Clayton , or as Swift severe ; In diff'rent views their trials , tempers scan , Ev'n Swift can weep , and Clayton is a man . Superior faculties avail not here , Wit points the shaft , and valour pours the tear . The same nice nerve which vibrates to the brain Its sense of pleasure , gives as quick its pain : And all the diff'rence 'twixt the fool and wise , In their sensations , and perceptions lies . The Man of Wit in many parts is sore , Touch but a Genius , and he smarts all o'er . The wife his Wisdom to This word is generally us'd to express Anger , or a Sense of Injury ; but comes from the French Ressentiment , and originally means no more than a sensible Apprehension , or true Feeling : as , Il avoit quelque Ressentiment de Goute . Je ne perdrai jamais le Ressentiment des Bontez que vous m'avez temoignèes . ( See Miege's Dict . ) In which sense it is here us'd . Resentment owes , The Fool feels little , for he little knows . The downright Ass is passive , mild , and tame , By blows or kindness urg'd , is still the same : His stoic breast no kindling passions prove , Kick him you may , but you can never move . O envy'd creature ! who nor feels or fears , Who all things suffers , all things bravely bears . Whom neither Hope , or Fear , or Shame can move , Nor kindling mounts to Rage , or melts to Love . His pleasures always equal , flowing , full , For ever patient and for ever dull ! If then from Wisdom half our pains arise , Say , Masham , what avails it to be wise ? The greatest good proud Science can bestow , But learn'd the latest , is — Our selves to know . Yet after all their search , the wise complain , This very knowledge irritates their pain . In vain you tell me of the stoic train : Where is the man not sensible of pain ? All find , all feel it too in some degree ; It makes old Zeno fret as well as me . Else why not choose , for contemplation sake , The burning plough-share , or the tort'ring rack ? If pain's no ill , why not prefer the stone To velvet cushions , and to beds of down ? — I grant he reason'd calmly in the gout , But try him farther , and you'll find him out . Touch but his pride , at once you make him smart : A stoic only , just in such a part ; In all the rest susceptible of pain , And feels and reasons much like other men . Among th' intrepid breed I know there are , Who any hardship , any pains can bear . To whom less shocking is th' impending sword , Than to the meek of soul , a slighting word . What hardy ' squires , what soldiers daily feel , A thousand soft Adonises wou'd kill . " Yet whence is this ? " — From reason , sir , no doubt . But pray , will abstract reason cure the gout ? Did ever axioms sooth the nervous ill ? Or syllogisms pay the doctor's bill ? Too much , I fear , of reason's aid we boast , Where most 'tis wanted , there it fails us most . 'Tis not the soldier's reason makes him bear Th' inclement season , and the toilsome war ; 'Tis not the nice deduction of the ' squire , That keeps him well and warm without a fire : The mind does little ; 'tis the body here , That is , in strictness , the philosopher . Those only then are truly said to bear , Who feel the pain , no matter what , or where . Suppose it of th' acute , or lingring kind , Suppose it of the body , or the mind ; Suppose it touch the welfare of a friend , Suppose it only at the finger's end ; Yet , if you feel the stroke , 'tis pain to you , And if you bear it well , you're patient too . For pain , as such , is neither more or less , But borrows all its sting from passiveness . From those nice touches which from sense arise , Or which when past , reflection oft supplies . In this , I grant , are infinite degrees , But hence results our misery or ease : Not from the stroke , so much as from the smart , Not from the wound , but from the head or heart . Hence Timon's peevish , Dromio mild and tame ; But shall we flatter one , the other blame , Because their feelings are not just the same ? Yet quite a Wretch who feels and frets we call , And quite a Saint who nothing feels at all . This too , perchance , may serve to reconcile The virgin's panicks , and the stoic's smile . 'Tis this makes Charlot at a spider scream — This spite of reason , resolution , fame , May make a soldier shrink , a saint blaspheme . This to a medium every station brings , This levels with their slaves the proudest kings , And reconciles th' unequal face of things . This inward sense , the feeling of the soul , Of pain and pleasure comprehends the whole . In vain soft Conti warbles in my ear , If the lax nerve convey no pleasure there . In vain the picture , and the splendid feast , If this not strike the eye , nor that the taste . Less pleas'd am I with Farinelli's note , Than the rude Cobler in his merry throat : He , who beneath some shatter'd bulk reclin'd , Smiles at the tempest , and derides the wind . Who hunger , dirt , and all but thirst can bear , To spleen a stranger , and a foe to fear . His mind no rude sensations discompose , Nor smells offensive e'er affront his nose ; Nor high debates , nor falling stocks he minds , His awful temples , lo ! a fillet binds ; Patient he eyes the future and the past , And , as a king , is happy to the last . To me it seems , howe'er our lot may fall , That pain and pleasure's dealt alike to all ; That ev'ry station has its proper ill , In what we fancy , or in what we feel ; That ev'ry worldly pleasure we may gain , Is dropt again in some attendant pain . Thus wisely deals th' impartial hand of Heav'n , To check our pride , and keep the ballance ev'n . Tell me , ye Proud ones ! who this world possess , Are not the high and low , the great and less , Born with an equal plea to happiness ? True , in your wants and wishes you succeed ; But are you better than the slaves you feed ? Have you more virtue who of ven'son eat , Than he who thirsts and hungers at your gate ? Alas ! with plenty , peace is seldom giv'n , Nor Beccaficoes always gifts of Heav'n . Tell me , ye Poor ones ! and your state explain , Whose patience Heav'n proportions to your pain , To whom is wanting ev'ry earthly good , But quiet sleeps , and appetites subdu'd ; Whose hopes to no wild summit ever prest , No keen sensations to disturb your breast : Say , why were all these wondrous blessings giv'n , But to convince you of the care of Heav'n ? To shew how equally its gifts are lent , To some in Gold , to others in Content . Still those are restless , discontented these , The poor for riches sigh , the rich for ease . Thus Curio pines with envy at the great , While you , my Lord , are sick of pomp and state . " My fate is hard , ( cries one ) o'erlook'd ! forgot ! Yet all life's comforts are my neighbour's lot . See , he's posless'd of all that Heav'n can grant , But I , unhappy ! ev'ry blessing want ; His life , tho' vile , is one luxurious treat , Whilst I have virtue , but not bread to eat . " Well , but you've friends , in health too pretty sound . " That's not the case ; I want — tenthousand pound . " Still you have — " What ! no reason to complain ? " Perhaps not much . However , think again . As yet but half this envy'd man you've seen , The outside's fair indeed , but look within ; Perhaps there's something there corrodes his breast , That cruel something , common to the rest : Some fav'rite wish too wild , or weak to own , Some secret pang , to all besides unknown . Or with his blessings , count his want of health , And to the pleasures , add the plagues of wealth : On ev'ry side the envy'd creature view , Then tell me which is happiest , He or You ? Possessing all things , cou'd we all enjoy , Wou'd neither appetites , nor objects cloy , Were ev'ry sense , each pleasing passion keen , Not pall'd by surfeits , nor chastis'd with spleen ; How blest the rich ! how curst indeed the poor ! One to enjoy , the other to endure . But why repine at what to wealth is giv'n ? Since gouts and cholics set the matter ev'n . Behold the man of luxury and wine ! His station too , it seems , is hard as thine . What , tho' for him our stateliest turbots swim , And France her vines luxuriant prunes for him ; Yet he complains , when lab'ring thro' the feast , Of loss of appetite , and want of taste ; Envies the very beggar at his gate , Who hardly knows the luxury to eat . But what ? your barns are full , your rents increase ; Sir Robert too has promis'd you a Place . Have comfort , man ! let not your spirits fail ! Perhaps to morrow you may relish quail . Think rather of the pleasures which you share , And learn their inconveniencies to bear . Rejoice in cray-fish soup ! be glad in trout ! But pray have patience , when you feel the gout ; Sit down resign'd , when cholics rack your breast , Or rise , like Bethel , from th' intemp'rate feast . Thus each has something to enjoy , and bear ; And none may envy much his neighbour's share . Envy ! the source of half the wretched feel , And where it strikes , the hardest wound to heal . Yet why repine at what my neighbours taste ? Since I in something else am just as blest . To me perhaps kind heav'n indulgent grants The spirits , health , or limbs my neighbour wants ; To me has giv'n a quicker sense of shame , While he feels nothing of contempt or blame : To me no acres of paternal ground , To him the spleen and fifty thousand pound . If doom'd severer trials to sustain , Some secret pow'r may blunt the edge of pain : The keen sensation use may reconcile , And added Hope affliction's sting beguile . Wou'd you enquire , why man's to suff'ring born ; To feel his frailties , and his nature mourn ? Why each has his peculiar ill assign'd , Some pain of body , or some plague of mind ; Some lingring malady for years endur'd , Some hopeless passion , never to be cur'd : And why not rather temp'rate , wise , serene , Without all healthful , and all peace within ? Know , thankless man ! that He , who rules the ball , In goodness infinite permits it all . For nat'ral Evil , rightly understood , Works but the grand design , our moral Good ; And he unjustly of his lot complains , Who finds his strength proportion'd to his pains . This life , with pain and pleasure intermixt , Is but a state of trial for the next ; A stage , on which amid ' the vary'd scenes , Promiscuous Cesars tread with Harlequins . Where none of all the self-admiring train , May choose his part , or strut his hour again : Our bus'ness only thro' the measur'd span , To act it well , and wisely as we can . Pain was permitted in the various part , To check the manners , and chastise the heart ; To blunt the appetite to moral ill ; To curb , restrain , and rectify the will ; To call us back from ev'ry wild pursuit ; To clear the soil for virtue's plants to shoot ; To move compassion for our neighbour's ill , And teach us where to weep , from what we feel : To fix , to urge the bus'ness of our span ; To raise the hero , and to mend the man . Strong trials must the headstrong temper break , As gentler methods oft reclaim the meek . When lightnings flash , the most obdurate mind Some efforts sure of penitence must find : Ev'n Felix trembles at a gen'ral doom , And owns the terrors of a world to come . These are the ends for which afflictions came , To rouze our reason , and our passions tame ; To set fair Virtue in her proper light , And fix the wavering attention right . What tho' your part amid ' the gen'ral scene , Too high or hard appear , too low or mean ; Beset with wants , with cares and fears opprest , The sport of fortune , and of men the jest : Yet wait awhile , whatever chance befal , Heav'n's ways are equal , thine unequal all . Here but as strangers journeying for a space , To seek some sure , some distant resting-place ; Some perils by the way we must endure , The cruel robber , and the night obscure . Yet , arm'd with Patience , let us boldly dare , The end is certain , and the prospect fair . He , who proportions largely all our gain , Weighs ev'ry loss , and counts out ev'ry pain ; Sees all our frailties , measures dust by dust , In all he gives and takes , supremely just : That pow'r eternal will our steps befriend , And guide us safely to our journey's end ; Where ev'ry pang , where ev'ry fear shall cease , And each immortal guest subside to peace . To him who suffer'd well , will much be giv'n , And Patience wear the brightest wreath in Heav'n . For you , my Lord , in various conflicts seen , Not spoil'd with peevishness , nor sow'rd with spleen , The best of tempers , and the best of men : For you , alas ! one trial yet remains ; O suffer righteously these proving strains ! And if unmov'd , unruffled you can hear , What Patience ' self perchance could hardly bear ; If yet this forer trial you survive , Your Lordship is the patient'st man alive .