Robert Pollok

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept
Essential love.

Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept
Essential love.

He sat among his bags, and, with a look
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
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He sat among his bags, and, with a look
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
Away unalmed; and midst abundance died--
Sorest of evils!--died of utter want.

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be read more

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be believed,
The other never read.

'Twas slander filled her mouth with lying words;
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin.

'Twas slander filled her mouth with lying words;
Slander, the foulest whelp of Sin.