Robert Pollok

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.

Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.

Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.

On his weary couch
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch,
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive read more

On his weary couch
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch,
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive beam
That through his lattice peeped derisively.

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.