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Those ills that mortal men endure So long, are capable of cure, As they of freedom may be sure; But, that denied, a grief, though small, Shakes the whole roof, or ruins all.

Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot or not, to be content with all.

Jove may afford us thousands of reliefs, Since man expos'd is to a world of griefs.

By dream I saw one of the three Sisters of fate appear to me; Close to my bedside she did stand, Showing me there a firebrand; She told me too, as that did spend, So drew my life unto an end. Three quarters were consum'd of it; Only remained a little bit, Which will be burnt up by-and-by; Then, Julia, weep, for I must die.