Nathaniel Cotton (/ˈkɒtən/; 1707 – 2 August 1788) was an English physician and poet.
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.
If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home.
Be mine that silent calm repast, A conscience cheerful to the last: That tree which bears immortal fruit, Without a canker at the root; That friend which never fails the just, When other friends desert their trust.
On God for all events depend; You cannot want when God's your friend. Weigh well your part and do your best; Leave to your Maker all the rest.
To be resigned when ills betide, Patient when favours are deni'd, And pleas'd with favours given,- Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
Thus hand in hand through life we 'll go; Its checker'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we 'll tread.
I stew all night in my own grease.
Yet still we hug the dear deceit.
Tis reason's part To govern and to guard the heart, To lull the wayward soul to rest, When hopes and fears distract the breast; Reason may calm this doubtful strife, And steer thy bark through various life.
We'll therefore relish with content, Whate'er kind providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our pow'r; For, if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudent to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour.