That hour upon my morn of age；
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought
My part is ended on thy stage.
Yes threaten do. Alas！ I fear
As little as I hope from thee：
I know thou canst not show nor bear
More hatred than thou hast to me.
My tender first and simple years
Thou didst abuse and then betray；
Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears
When all the causes were away.
Then in a soil hast planted me
Where breathe the basest of thy fools；
Where envious arts professèd be
And pride and ignorance the schools；
Where nothing is examined weigh'd
But as 'tis rumour'd so believed；
Where every freedom is betray'd
And every goodness tax'd or grieved.
But what we're born for we must bear：
Our frail condition it is such
That what to all may happen here
If 't chance to me I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistake
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind—that for my sake
There should a miracle be wrought.
No I do know that I was born
To age misfortune sickness grief：
But I will bear these with that scorn
As shall not need thy false relief.
Nor for my peace will I go far
As wanderers do that still do roam；
But make my strengths such as they are
Here in my bosom and at home.