TO MY ANTENOR, MARCH 16, 1660-1.|
My dear Antenor, now give o'er,
For my sake talk of graves no more;
Death is not in our power to gain,
And is both wish'd and fear'd in vain.
Let 's be as angry as we will,
Grief sooner may distract than kill,
And the unhappy often prove
Death is as coy a thing as love.
Those whose own sword their death did give,
Afraid were, or asham'd, to live;
And by an act so desperate,
Did poorly run away from fate;
'Tis braver much t' outride the storm,
Endure its rage, and shun its harm;
Affliction nobly undergone,
More greatness shows than having none.
But yet the wheel in turning round,
At last may lift us from the ground;
And when our fortune 's most severe,
The less we have, the less we fear.
And why should we that grief permit,
Which cannot mend nor shorten it?
Let 's wait for a succeeding good,
Woes have their ebb as well as flood;
And since the parliament have rescued you,
Believe that Providence will do so too.
The Female Poets of Great Britain.
Frederic Rowton, ed.
Philadelphia: Carey and Hart, 1849. 71-2.
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