Thus Gwyn was happy; he had now a friend,
And a meek spouse on whom he could depend: 
But now possess’d of male and female guide,
Divided power he thus must subdivide: 
In earlier days he rode, or sat at ease
Reclined, and having but himself to please;
Now if he would a fav’rite nag bestride,
He sought permission—­“Doctor, may I ride?”
(Rebecca’s eye her sovereign pleasure told) —
“I think you may, but guarded from the cold,
Ride forty minutes.”—­Free and happy soul,
He scorn’d submission, and a man’s control;
But where such friends in every care unite
All for his good, obedience is delight. 
   Now Gwyn a sultan bade affairs adieu,
Led and assisted by the faithful two;
The favourite fair, Rebecca, near him sat,
And whisper’d whom to love, assist, or hate;
While the chief vizier eased his lord of cares,
And bore himself the burden of affairs: 
No dangers could from such alliance flow,
But from that law that changes all below. 
   When wintry winds with leaves bestrew’d the ground,
And men were coughing all the village round;
When public papers of invasion told,
Diseases, famines, perils new and old;
When philosophic writers fail’d to clear
The mind of gloom, and lighter works to cheer;
Then came fresh terrors on our hero’s mind —
Fears unforeseen, and feelings undefined. 
   “In outward ills,” he cried, “I rest assured
Of my friend’s aid; they will in time be cured;
But can his art subdue, resist, control
These inward griefs and troubles of the soul? 
Oh! my Rebecca! my disorder’d mind
No help in study, none in thought can find;
What must I do, Rebecca?” She proposed
The Parish-guide; but what could be disclosed
To a proud priest?—­“No! him have I defied,
Insulted, slighted—­shall he be my guide? 
But one there is, and if report be just,
A wise good man, whom I may safely trust;
Who goes from house to house, from ear to ear,
To make his truths, his Gospel-truths, appear;
True if indeed they be, ’tis time that I should hear: 
Send for that man; and if report be just,
I, like Cornelius, will the teacher trust;
But if deceiver, I the vile deceit
Shall soon discover, and discharge the cheat.” 
   To Doctor Mollet was the grief confess"d,
While Gwyn the freedom of his mind expressed;
Yet own’d it was to ills and errors prone,
And he for guilt and frailty must atone. 
“My books, perhaps,” the wav’ring mortal cried,
“Like men deceive; I would be satisfied; —
And to my soul the pious man may bring
Comfort and light:  —­do let me try the thing.” 
   The cousins met, what pass’d with Gwyn was told: 
“Alas!” the Doctor said, “how hard to hold
These easy minds, where all impressions made
At first sink deeply, and then quickly fade;
For while so strong these new-born fancies reign,
We must divert them, to oppose is vain: