My record is on high.
Oh Thou, whose hand
Hath thus made desolate all my company,
And left me a poor, childless man—behold
They who once felt it pride to call me friend,
Make of my name a by-word, which was erst
Like harp or tabret to their venal lip.
Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow
Furrow'd with wrinkles.
Soon I go the way