Classic Poem

No Man's ill Chance, is Fate's Fault, but his own,
Since sure, our Fortune's good, or bad, alone,
But as well, or ill by us, undergone;
No Man's Fate, till his Fault, can be his Blame,
Nor, but by his ill-bearing it, his Shame;
'Tis not a Man's Condition, mean, or low,
Makes him contemn'd, but when his Mind is so,
Since Ill-luck, born well, does his Honour grow;
'Tis not the best State, but, best Spirit then,
Distinguishes the best, from worst of Men;
He's best, who best the worst of bad Luck, bears,
Who no Wrong, Mischief, or Dishonour fears;
That e'er he may, from others undergo,
But such, as he, to other Men, may do;
Whose Honour is, his honest Poverty,
Which him, does not disgrace, but justifie,
By living well in Want, most hon'rably;
Which proves, if Avarice, or Fraud, he had,
His Fortune in the World, he might have made;
Who, had his Faith been less, his Pride been more,
More too, had been his Fortune, Wealth, or Pow'r;
Which proves, he Want wou'd rather undergo,
Than any poor thing, to relieve it, do;
Who naked, in his honest Poverty,
Assaults upon his Freedom can defie;
To be made Rich, or High, by's Infamy;
But as his abject Servitude is more,
To have, o'er his Superiours, the more Pow'r;
From whose well-born Ills, his true Honour springs,
Victorious, in his unfelt Sufferings;
By which, he does his Tyrant-Passions sway,
Which wou'd his Virtue to his Lusts betray,
So Reason does triumphantly obey;
By his Contempt of Life, or Death, prevents
All Disappointments, or ill Accidents,
But wisely to Necessity consents;
When robb'd of all by Fate, his Enemy,
In spight of Losses, saves his Constancy;
Feels, but ne'r suffers Fortune's Tyranny;
Whom Hope cou'd never flatter, Danger scare,
Nor Disappointment bring to mean Despair;
Who, since no Will, but Heav'n's alone he had,
Cou'd ne'r from any sort of Change, be made,
Of, or by wise, just Providence, afraid;
Fortune, and Pow'r, bring Little Great Men low;
Bulwarks, and Strong-Holds to the Ground may throw;
But he who still is with a Brave Soul man'd,
Will, against Shocks of Fate unshaken stand;
Not all Ambition's strong Artillery,
Nor all the roaring Force of Calumny,
Nor pinching, starving, sharp Necessity,
Or Love's Small-Shot, a Battery can make,
To wound his Fame, or Resolution shake;
Or can the firm Guard of his Virtues rout,
From his fix'd Mind, that's passively more stout;
Wherein strong Sense keeps storming Passions out,
Which, Traytor-like, within set Souls on Fire;
So, with Attacks from Fate without conspire,
To Blow-up, to their Ruine, in the End,
Those, whom they were first rais'd up to defend;
As Gun-powder, which fires too quickly, does
To Hazards, those it shou'd defend, expose;
Of Man's Defence, does his Destruction grow,
To make him suffer Mischiefs, he wou'd do;
But he, whose Passions can't be soon blown up,
With his own Fire, but them can coolly stop,
Has the best Courage, which is passive, shown,
Possesses Peace in War, and keeps his own;
(The hardest thing, by proud Men, to be done;)
Out of Possession of his Heart, Sense, ne'r
Can be brought, by Fate's Threats, or his own Fear,
Since he, what he cannot avoid, can bear;
So still unshaken, and intrepidly
The Shocks of Chance defies, with Constancy,
And scuffles with the threatning Destinies;
Fears neither open Force, nor base Surprize;
Who, tho' the Heav'ns no Blessings to him grant,
Can grant himself, in Need, to feel no Want;
To pray, nor ask Pity from any one,
But is his own Relief, for having none;
Since Wrongs or Sufferings, (we must needs confess)
As longer born, or more, are suffer'd less:
Then Want, Pain, Shame, we less or more shou'd deem,
Not as they are, but as they to us seem;
But as we more, or less can suffer them;
When adverse Chance, has done the worst it can,
Of Wealth, Fame, Patience, to divest a Man;
Yet he's not robb'd, whose Mind entire remains,
In Turns of Fate, his Constancy retains;
His Losses make (by his Improvement so
Of his try'd Virtue) Gain, and Honour too;
Who (since great Minds, but in great Streights are known)
But by his Loss, his Honour cou'd have won;
Had been undone, had he not been undone;
Who was by Fortune's long Indulgence made,
(And too much good Luck) to bear worse the bad,
They nothing lose, who Patience cannot lose,
Since Man, by Ill Luck borne well, honour'd grows,
Who, as his Loss is more, more Patience shows;
Our Loss, our Shame, from our Impatience is,
Loss is not Loss, by what we lose, but miss;
Nor is our Grief, or Suff'ring, Shame, or Pain,
Till of them we more shamefully complain,
Show, we want good Heart, bad Luck to sustain;
Want, nor Indignity, Dishonour are,
But from our own Impatience, Pride, Shame, Fear;
Brave Men turn Hardships, of cross Destiny,
But to Proofs of their Magnanimity,
And Patience, which their Virtues justifie:
Good or Bad Fortune to despise, is Great,
He, who bears Ill well, is most Fortunate,
By which he is out of the Pow'r of Fate;
Whose Happiness in Deed, and Thought, is more,
As more in his, and less in others Pow'r;
So Fortune, Kindness, does with Injuries,
Since good Luck makes Fools, bad shou'd make 'em Wise;
Then bad Luck's good, by which Men better grow,
And but the Good from Bad the better know,
So but the more their Sense, Faith, Courage show:
The Mind of Proof, like Armour then of Proof,
Bearing the Blow, takes the Shame of it off;
'Tis the true Mark of each well temper'd Mind,
When we no Marks, of Fate's Shocks in it find;
As 'tis of true well-temper'd Armour, when
No Mark of our Foes Rage is on it seen,
What e'er the Force, to make it yield, has been;
So that the greatest Heart, and highest Mind,
Are they, in which, we less Impression find
O'th' Shocks of Fate, or less to Change inclin'd;
The most firm, clear, exalted Soul alone,
Is that, in which least Perturbation's shown;
As in sublimest Regions of the Air,
Tempests are less heard, dark Clouds least appear;
But still serene, calm, glorious known to be,
From Clouds and Storms beneath 'em, clear and free;
Whilst sultry Meteors, Storms are hatch'd below,
Foul, or fair Weather there, does come and go;
Exalted Minds, as Heav'ns, in Change, no Changing know.