Be of good cheer,
Friend Yorick! If this thought gives pain,
As now it does, I fear,
Is it not "God"? And though in error lain,
'Tis but your own dear child,
Your flesh and blood,
That tortures you and gives you pain,
Your little rogue and do-no-good,
See if the rod will change its mood!
In brief, friend Yorick, leave that drear
Philosophy--and let me now
Whisper one word as medicine,
My own prescription, in your ear,
My remedy against such spleen--
"Who loves his God, chastises him, I ween,"