XV.
With men 'tis usual, when depriv'd of ought
Which with much pleasure entertain'd the thought,
To say, that such a thing they've lost: In you,
Who the great search of wisdom do pursue,
To say, You've lost, is mean; say you've restor'd
What bounteous God did for a while afford.
Thy only son, thy dearest hope is dead;
Why do'st thou beat thy breast, and shake thy head?
Why man? He's but restor'd, return'd again,
To the kind owner's hand from whence he came.
Thou'st lost thy land by fraud? a vain mistake?
How is that loss that is but given back?
But he that thus deceiv'd me, was not he
A villain, and a knave? What's that to thee?
What is't to thee? Is he a knave or no
By whom he takes who did the gift bestow;
Was't not his own? Thou'lt grant me, I suppose,
To whom he would, he might of's own dispose.
While he allows, use what belongs to him,
Not as thy own, as travellers their inn.
Who, as at home, are treated while they pay,
But claim no title longer than they stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment