I rue the riches of my former fate;
Sweet comfort’s blasted clusters I lament;
I tremble at the blessings once so dear;
And every pleasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the sun his lustre but for me,
The single man? Are angels all beside?
I mourn for millions: ’tis the common lot;
In this shape, or in that, has fate entail’d
The mother’s throes on all of woman born, 240