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.

What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

'Twas slander filled her mouth with lying words;
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin.

'Twas slander filled her mouth with lying words;
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin.

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.