But now, though plenty on thy board be found,
And thou hast credit with thy neighbours round,
Yet there is something in thy looks that tells, 340
An odious secret in thy bosom dwells.
Thy form is not erect, thy neighbours trace
A coward spirit in thy shifting pace.
Thou goest to meeting, not from any call,
But just to hear, that we are sinners all—
And equal sinners, or the difference made
’Twixt man and man has but the slightest shade;