Wou'd you enquire, why man's to suff'ring born;
To feel his frailties, and his nature mourn?
Why each has his  ill assign'd,
Some pain of body, or some plague of mind;
Some lingring malady for years endur'd,
Some hopeless passion, never to be cur'd:
And why not rather temp'rate, wise, serene,
Without all healthful, and all peace within?
Know, thankless man! that He, who rules the ball,
In goodness infinite permits it all.
For , rightly understood,
Works but the grand design, our
And he unjustly of his lot complains,
Who finds his strength proportion'd to his pains.