Complain’d how sadly he was rail’d,
Curst by the name in ev’ry street.
Of Paper, Tendry, Rogue and Cheat:
Yet if some honour should requite
His labour—things might still go right.
MURDER before the footstool stood,
With tatter’d robe distain’d in blood.
‘And who,’ he cry’d, with daring face,
‘Denies my title to the place?
My watchful eyes mankind survey,