Too proud for pity, I suppress'd
The sighs that struggled in my breast;
And while a vulture gnaw'd my heart,
Smiles in my face, conceal'd the smart.
Ye younger brothers, who inherit,
In lieu of fortune, the bon spirit;
For which, unless your father's bail,
You must for ever rot in jail;
Ye gamesters, who have lost codille,
Unpaid as yet your tailor's bill;
Ye thieves, detected on the top
Of houses, or within a shop;
Ye tender damsels, who bestow
Your virgin treasures on a beau,
Forsaken of your fop, the scorn
Of bitter prudes, and quite forlorn;
Say, did ye oftner wish to die,
Or feel sincerer grief than I?
Now ripe with injuries and age,
My spirits kindle into rage;
Now visionary projects roll,
And crowd tumultous on my soul.
So fire conceal'd from human eyes,
In mount Vesuve or Ætna lies,
Till burst at last, and finding vent,
Is to the clouds with fury sent.
My story to the dean I wrote
With great expense of oil and thought;
Did he receive it with a nod,
Profess it was extremely odd?
Did he his shoulders shrug, or think
My cause unworthy of his ink?
Did he a ragged youth despise?
Ah! no, the dean is just and wise:
