Who pines with Love, or in lascivious flames Consumes, is with his own consent undone: He chuses to be wretched, to be mad; And warn’d proceeds and wilful to his fate. 415 But there’s a Passion, whole tempestuous sway Tears up each virtue planted in the breast, And shakes to ruins proud philosophy. For pale and trembling Anger rushes in, With fault’ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare; 420 Fierce as the Tyger, madder than the seas, Desperate, and arm’d with more than human strength. How soon the calm, humane, and polish’d man Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend! Who pines in Love, or wastes with silent Cares, 425 Envy, or Ignominy, or tender Grief, Slowly descends and ling’ring to the shades. But he whom Anger stings, drops, if he dies, At once, and rushes apoplectic down; Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell. 430 For, as the Body thro’ unnumber’d strings Reverberates each vibration of the Soul; As is the Passion, such is still the Pain The Body feels; or chronic, or acute. And oft a sudden storm at once o’erpowers 435 The Life, or gives your Reason to the winds. Such fates attend the rash alarm of Fear, And sudden Grief, and Rage, and sudden Joy. There are, mean time, to whom the boist’rous fit Is Health, and only fills the sails of life. 440 For where the Mind a torpid winter leads, Wrapt in a Body corpulent and cold, And each clogg’d function lazily moves on; A generous sally spurns th’ incumbent load, Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow. 445 But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil, Or are your nerves too irritably strung; Wave all Dispute; be cautious if you joke; Keep Lent for ever; and forswear the Bowl. For one rash moment sends you to the shades, 450 Or shatters every hopeful scheme of life, And gives to horror all your days to come. Fate, arm’d with thunder, fire, and every plague That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind, And makes the happy wretched in an hour, 455 O’erwhelms you not with woes so horrible As your own Wrath, nor gives more sudden blows.