Is it naught by pomp of life… hath thine

hand forgot?

Verily, existence to sorrow dragged as

thou hath brought,

folds within thine heart wouldest burst

forth of thy burden,

frugal though thou be, hugged by hope’s

receipt is heavy laden,

unblessed to throw thy sash o’er shoulder

and to claim,

thy hope thou hast little spent, tis but

nonsense left in name,

fulness of virtue sought but to linger bare,

nigh and alone,

surely pretense known will’st but languish

and disown,

distrust doth hesitate and pause the path

thou dost walk,

to idle be thee found in blame ‘ere unmatched

in thy talk,

splitting hairs and venal quills of love to drips

of ink,

labours found but shallow breathed shall fail

us to sink,

pretense to rob thee thine own grace and

sultry way,

did’st naught steal fair manner and joy found

in thine day,

weighted stones thy parson met doth abate us

as thou dine,

ne’er to knowest loss by shame and dare find

things divine.