Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;
30
Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex,
And every friend, and every brother vex—
Each fond companion?—No, I thank my God.
There rests my torment—there is hung the rod.
To friend, to fame, to family unknown,
Sour disappointments frown on me alone.
Who hates my song, and damns the poor design,
Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine!