Ah, ruthless Power! dare I complain,
That against me thy shafts are sped?
Whilst peace, whilst self-content remain,
Nor hopes of Happiness are fled?
Like Sickness, thou art hard to bear,
But real Friends come round to cheer:
Kindness can soothe the Throb of Pain,
When Gilead's Balm shall fail, and Opiates are in vain.