See him with joy and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him, who doles the day's supply,
And counts our chances, who at night may die:
Yet help me, Heav'n! and let me not complain
Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain."
Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew;
Daily he placed the workhouse in his view!
But came not there, for sudden was his fate:
490
He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage-gate.