The third EPISTLE to Cousin F. R

That Love, dear Friend, which brings thee to my Mind, Thus frequently, hath now again inclin'd To visit thee, with these Considerations Concerning thee: O let thy Meditations Hereof be serious! Let all Vanity Be far exil'd, and love Simplicity. Shall I object to thee the pompous State Of purple Dives, or his dreadful Fate? Nay surely! Thou the History canst read; Read thou within, and let not Self-hood plead. His unrelenting Heart despis'd the Poor, Ev'n Lazarus, that languish'd at his Door, Without Relief: Whereas in such a State, I should (think'st thou) be more compassionate, And not so disregard him. Ah, my Friend! Though some a Hand of Charity extend, As outwardly, which in its Place is good, Imparting sometimes Raiment, sometimes Food, To fellow Creatures: Yet there's one that's poor, Humble and meek, contemned at thy Door; That waits for Entrance, and that gently knocks, Until the Dew have wet his comely Locks; Open to entertain him now, for he Is come in tender Love to visit thee: And tho' poor, meek, and lowly he appear He's King of Kings; therefore incline thine Ear To his Request, that he may dwell with thee, Whose Love's the Fountain of Felicity. Let Superfluities be laid aside, The gaudy Trophies of insulting Pride; And be not over curious to express Too much Exactness in an outward Dress; Lest peevish Passion should too oft prevail, To banish Reason from its Throne, and vail Sound Judgment; which would search and purify Submissive Souls from their iniquity, And Vanity, abounding in th' Abuse Of Visibles, which Mortals fondly choose, And seek a Satisfaction in, in vain; For here no lasting Joy can they obtain. Why then should any so unmindful be Of that great Off-spring of Eternity, Th' immortal Soul? That Epitome of Wonder; Compar'd to which, all Things beneath or under The glorious Sun are vain! What can be given In change for this, whose proper Home is Heaven? Ah, what Advantage will it be to gain The World, and plunge the Soul in endless Pain! Alas! Earth's transient, vain, deluding Toys, So fondly snatch'd at, for true lasting Joys, Tho', as by Rattles oft a crying Child Is for a Season of the Breast beguil'd, They seem to please, can never satiate The panting Soul, nor bring t'a blessed State: Why should they thus be priz'd, my Friend, O seeing Thou art the Off-spring of th' Eternal Being: Whilst that the Lord of Lords invites thee, come, Love him that will conduct thee safely home, Unto himself; and in thy Heart reveal Eternal Life, as the abiding Seal Of his endeared Love: Then heav'nly Joy Shall consolate thy Heart eternally. Alas, that thou hereby might'st rightly know, How the abounding Streams of Love do flow To thee and others, with increasing Store; Its boundless Current streams and issues more Than through the slender Conduit of a Quill, In such small sable Channel can distil: O mayst thou always at the Fountain dwell! For its unseal'd to wrestling Israel.