For All Have Not The Gift Of

I Learn To Pity Woes So Like My Own.

Riches Cannot Rescue From The Grave, Which Claims Alike The Monarch And The Slave.

Fool That I Was, Upon My Eagle's Wings I Bore This Wren, Till I Was Tired With Soaring, And Now He Mounts Above Me.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

From Plots And Treasons Heaven Preserve My Years, But Save Me Most From My Petitioners. Unsatiate As The Barren Womb Or Grave; God Cannot Grant So Much As They Can Crave.