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AN EPISTLE, FROM THE AUTHOR TO HIS SISTER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dear sister, / if soliloquy conduce
Last Line: Of inward life thanksgiving is the sap.
Subject(s): Patience; Relationships; Sisters


DEAR SISTER,
If soliloquy conduce,
(Meant, as the name declares, for private use)
To your contentment; if such kind of fruit
Please your taste, you're very welcome to't:
Tho' pluck'd, one day in April, from the ground,
It keeps, in pickle, all the seasons round.

'Tis Summer now, and Autumn comes anon;
Winter succeeds, and Spring, when that is gone;
But be it Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring,
To nurture fretting is a simple thing:
A weed so useless, to the use of reason,
Can, absolutely, never be in season.

Without much nursing, that the weed will grow
I wish I had some reason less to know;
Some less to see, how folly, when it grew
In my own ground, could cultivate it too;
Could hedge it round, and cherish and suppose
That, being mine, the thistle was a rose.

You know the saying, of I know not whom,
Little Misfortunes serve till greater come;
And saying, somewhere met with, I recall,
That 'tis the greatest to have none at all:
Rare case, perhaps;—they reach, we often see,
All sorts of persons, him, her, you, or me.

"This being, then," Experience says, "the case,
"What kind of conduct must a man embrace?"
My 'pothecary, as you think, replies—
"Pray take 'em quietly, if you be wise;
"Bitter they are, 'tis true, to flesh and blood;
"But if they were not, they would do no good."

One time, when 'Pothecary Patience found
That his persuasion got but little ground,
He call'd in Doctor Gratitude, to try
If his advice could make me to comply;
"I recommended patience, Sir," said he,
"Pray will you speak, for he regards not me."

"Patience! a custard lid!" said Doctor Grat.
"His case wants, plainly, something more than that;
" 'Tis a good recipe, but cure is longer
"Than it should be; we must have something stronger:
"A creeping pulse! Bare patience will not do—
"To get him strength, he must be thankful too.

"He must consider"—and so on he went,
To shew thanksgiving's marvellous extent;
And what a true catholicon it was;
And what great cures it had but brought to pass;
And how best fortunes, wanting it, were curst;
And how it turn'd to good the very worst.

O what a deal he said!—And in the light,
Wherein he plac'd it, all was really right:
But, like good doctrine, of some good divine,
Which, while 'tis preach'd, is admirably fine,
When Doctor Gratitude had left the spot,
All that he said was charming—and forgot.

Your doctor's potion,—patience and the bark,—
May hit both mental and material mark;
One serves to keep the ague from the mind,
As t'other does, from its corporeal rind;
There is, methinks, in their respective growth,
A fair analogy betwixt 'em both.

For what the bark is to the growing tree,
To human mind, that, patience seems to be;
They hold the principles of growth together,
And blunt the force of accident and weather:
Bar'd of its bark, a tree, we may compute,
Will not remain much longer on its root.

And mind in mortals, that are wisely will'd,
Will hardly bear to have its patience peel'd.
Nothing, in fine, contributes more to living,
Physic, or food,—than patience and thanksgiving;
Patience defends us from all outward hap;
Of inward life thanksgiving is the sap.





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