Provokes th’ insulting eye of Spleen
To mock the melancholy trait
Of patience in thy front display’d,
By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray’d,
To character the sorrows of thy fate;
Say, Heir of misery, what to thee
Is life?—A long, long, gloomy stage
Through the sad vale of labour and of pain!
No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine age,
Nor in the vasty round of this terrene