Robert Pollok

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

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.

A fly, a grape-stone, or a hair can kill.

A fly, a grape-stone, or a hair can kill.

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

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.