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LXIII.

Thou haſt no friend!—ſtill on the worthleſſe Traine

Thy kindneſſe flowd, and ſtill with ſcorne repaid;
Even ſhe on whom thy favours heapt remain,
Even ſhe regards thee with a boſome dead
To kindly paſſion, and by motives led
Such as the Planter of his Negro deems;
What profit ſtill can of the wretch be made
Is all his care, of more he never dreams:
So, farre remote from her, thy troubles ſhe eſteems.

LXIII.

Thy Children too! Heavens! what a hopeleſſe ſight!

Ah, wretched Syre!—but ever from this ſcene
The wretched Syre precipitates his flight,
And in the Bowls wylde fever ſhuns his teene.
So paſs his dayes, while What he might have beene
Its beauteous views does every morne present:
So paſs his dayes, while ſtill the raven Spleen
Croaks in his eares, The brighteſt parts miſpent
Beget an hoarie age of griefe and diſcontent.