Robert Pollok

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be read more

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be believed,
The other never read.

On his weary couch
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch,
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive read more

On his weary couch
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch,
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive beam
That through his lattice peeped derisively.

He sat among his bags, and, with a look
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
read more

He sat among his bags, and, with a look
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
Away unalmed; and midst abundance died--
Sorest of evils!--died of utter want.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.

All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.

All seems infected that th' infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.