Woe infinite and endless pain they bear;
Not one there is but knows the keen distress
Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care,
For to the poor all things are bitterness.
Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain,
The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life.
Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain
An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife
To share the sorrow of his unequal strife,—