By Philemon

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent,
And give them bulk beyond what nature meant.

A parent, brother, friend deceas'd, to cry--
"He's dead indeed, but he was born to die--"
Such temperate grief is suited to the size
And burthen of the loss; is just, and wise.
But to exclaim, "Ah! wherefore was I born,
"Thus to be left, for ever thus forlorn?"
Who thus laments his loss, invites distress,
And magnifies a woe that might be less,
Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd,
And leaving reason's remedy behind.