Sonnet LXXIII

THOU! whom Prosperity has always ledO'er level paths, with moss and flow'rets strewn;For whom she still prepares a downy bedWith roses scatter'd, and to thorns unknown,Wilt thou yet murmur at a mis-placed leaf?Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine,How many, born with feelings keen as thine,Taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief;How many steep in tears their scanty bread;Or, lost to reason, Sorrow's victims! rave:How many know not where to lay their head;While some are driven by anguish to the grave!Think; nor impatient at a feather's weight,Mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate!