That patient merit of the pug’list takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a well-planted blow? Who’d reproaches bear,
To fret and fume beneath a doubtful state,
But that a dread of something on the Stage,
(The undetermin’d trial, from whose bourne
Earle ne’er returned,) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
This fear of drubbing makes us cowards all;