He grieveth, and hath deep reasons; for falsehood hath wronged his trust,
And the breaches in his bleeding heart have been filled with the briars of suspicion.
For, alas, how few be friends, of whom charity hath hoped well!
How few there be among men who forget themselves for other!
Each one seeketh his own, and looketh on his brethren as rivals,
Masking envy with friendship, to serve his secret ends.
And the world, that corrupteth all good, hath wronged that sacred name,
For it calleth any man friend, who is not known for an enemy:
And such be as the flies of summer, while plenty sitteth at thy board:
But who can wonder at their flight from the cold denials of want?