Let men of high conceit and zeal,
Their fervors and their faith proclaim;
If Charity be wanting still,
The rest is but a sounding name.
Patient and meek, she suffers long,
And slowly her resentments rise;
Soon she forgets the greatest wrong,
And soon forgives her enemies.
She drives all malice from her breast,
To ill suspicions ne'er gives way;
But ever hopes and thinks the best,
And as she thinks, is apt to say.
She envies none their better state,
But makes her neighbours bliss her own;
Nor vaunts herself with mind elate,
But still a modest air puts on.
Her neighbour's infamy and ill,
To her no entertainment give;
She's pleas'd to see him prosper still,
And still in good repute to live.
This is the Grace that reigns on high,
And brightly will for ever burn:
When Hope shall in enjoyment die,
And Faith to intuition turn.
by Christopher Smart
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