For I triumph spite of all my woes.
Now, that I’ve made my vow,
Who[34] comes to help me keep it?
Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?
Ripe is the harvest now,
Yet comes there none to reap it.
Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.
Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold!
Not one will deign to aid me;
And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn;