Sonnet III (Boothby)
Did I not weep for him that was in pain!
Was not my hand still open to distress!
When did my harden'd heart the weak oppress,
Or Misery tell her plaintive tale in vain!
Did ever crime this bleeding bosom stain,
Or injured sufferer claim unpaid redress!
Envy, or hate, or pride, my soul possess;
O wounded truth of broken laws complain!
Fate to my humble hopes one blessing gave,
And no new gift my grateful breast required;
"O Heaven! The object of my love but save!"
Was the sole boon my pious prayers desired:
Why then has angry Heaven, atone dire blow,
For ever laid my sorrowing head so low?