Thus, though elect, I feel it hard, To lose what I possess’d before, To be from all my Wealth debarr’d,-- The brave _Sir Eustace_ is no more; But old I wax and passing poor, Stern, rugged Men my Conduct view; They chide my Wish, they bar my Door, ’Tis hard--I weep--you see I do.-- Must you, my Friends, no longer stay? Thus quickly all my Pleasures end? But I’ll remember, when I pray, My kind Physician and his Friend; And those sad Hours, you deign to spend With me, I shall requite them all; _Sir Eustace_ for his Friends shall send, And thank their Love at _Greyling Hall_. VISITOR. The poor Sir Eustace!--Yet his Hope, Leads him to think of Joys again; And when his Earthly Visions droop, His Views of Heavenly Kind remain:-- But whence that meek and humbled Strain, That Spirit wounded, lost, resign’d; Would not so proud a Soul disdain The Madness of the poorest Mind? PHYSICIAN. No! for the more he swell’d with Pride, The more he felt Misfortune’s Blow; Disgrace and Grief he could not hide, And Poverty had laid him low: Thus Shame and Sorrow working slow, At length this humble Spirit gave; Madness on these began to grow, And bound him to his Fiends a Slave. Though the wild Thoughts had touch’d his Brain, Then was he free:--So, forth he ran; To soothe or threat, alike were vain; He spake of Fiends; look’d wild and wan; Year after year, the hurried Man Obey’d those Fiends from place to place; Till his religious Change began To form a frenzied Child of Grace. For, as the Fury lost its Strength, The Mind repos’d; by slow Degrees, Came lingering Hope, and brought at length, To the tormented Spirit, Ease: This Slave of Sin, whom Fiends could seize, Felt or believ’d their Power had end;-- “‘Tis faith,” he cried, “my Bosom frees, “And now my SAVIOUR is my Friend.” But ah! though Time can yield Relief, And soften Woes it cannot cure; Would we not suffer Pain and Grief, To have our Reason sound and sure? Then let us keep our Bosoms pure, Our Fancy’s favourite Flights suppress; Prepare the Body to endure, And bend the Mind to meet Distress; And then His Guardian Care implore, Whom Dæmons dread and Men adore. [Illustration: text decoration] THE HALL OF JUSTICE. Part the First. Confiteor facere hoc annos; sed et altera causa est, Anxietas animi, continuusque dolor. OVID. MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &C. VAGRANT. Take, take away thy barbarous Hand, And let me to thy Master speak; Remit awhile the harsh Command, And hear me, or my Heart will break. MAGISTRATE.