Needs must prize poor Peter's secret since it lifts you thus.
Grant me now the boon whereat before you boggled!
Ten long years your march has moved—one triumph—(though e 's short)—hactēnus,
While I down and down disastrously have joggled
Till I pitch against Death's door, the true Nec Ultra Plus.
"Years ago—some ten 't is—since I sought for shelter,
Craved in your whole house a closet, out of all your means a comfort.
Now you soar above these: as is gold to spelter
So is power—you urged with reason—paramount to wealth.
Power you boast in plenty: let it grant me refuge!