Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;
Of children stinted in their daily meal,—
The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel.
Portentous spoke that pity in my breast,
And pleaded self—who ever pleads the best.
No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own—
To friends, to family, to foes unknown;
Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,
Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine.
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