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Poem	My dear Antenor now give o're, 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 wee will, Grief sooner may distract then 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'out-ride the storm, Endure its rages and shun his harm; Affliction nobly undergone, More Greatness shews 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 can nor mend nor shorten it? Let's wait for a succeeding good, Woes have their Ebb as well as flood: And since Parliament have rescu'd you, Believe that Providence will do so too.
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