What makes my sorry case the sadder,
I once stood high on Fortune’s ladder;[1]
From whence contrive the fickle jilt did,
That your petitioner should be tilted.
And soon th’ unconscionable flirt,
Will tread me fairly in the dirt,
Unless, perchance, these pithy lays
Procure me pence as well as praise.
Already doom’d to hard quill-driving,
’Gainst spectred poverty still striving,