O, why should Fortune on a few bestow
Her shining treasures, with a lavish hand?
Fill up their coffers till they overflow,
And turn to gold for them the very sand;
And crown their worthless names with titles grand?
While the poor man, to ceaseless sorrow born,
Sees Ruin's taloned whelps around him stand,
Himself defenceless in their midst, forlorn,
Moaning a prayer for pity, but exciting scorn.