XLV
How Poverty doth make her plea
To Dame Richesse most ruefully,
Who listeth not her piteous word,
But turns away as nought she heard.
The miseries of poverty
Alas! drear Poverty must be
The shamefaced spouse of Misery;
Her heart with sore affliction bruised,
Her eyes with scalding tears suffused,
While answering her sad plaint is heard
No sweet response, no pitying word,
To heal the wounds that tear her heart.
Her wretched fate it is to smart8370
With blame for every worthy deed,
How great soe’er her grief and need.
O ne’er consort with Poverty,
For nothing than her grip can be
More direful, as those find who get
Entangled in the coils of debt,
Through scattering wide in youthful days
Their substance, for old age oft pays
A heavy score, and many have stood
Therethrough beneath the gallows’ wood.8380
What pains untold those wretches know
Who driven by Poverty must go
Hither and thither to obtain
The little ease whereof they’re fain!
The lover nowise should forget
That Poverty doth sorely let
And hinder love, as Ovid saith:
With poor men love scant pastureth.
