If all around thee, good and bad, neglect thy seeming merit:
No man yet deserved, who found not some to love him;
And he, that never kept a friend, need only blame himself:
Many for unworthiness will droop and die, but all are not unworthy;
It must indeed be cold clay soil, that killeth every seed.
Therefore, examine thy state, O self-accounted martyr of Neglect,
It may be, thy merit is a cubit, and thy measure thereof a furlong;
But grant it greater than thy thoughts, and grant that men thy fellows,
For pleasure, business, or interest, misuse, forget, neglect thee,—
Still be thou conqueror in this, the consciousness of high deservings;