Distress

Has pity lost its mighty power to move, That all my mournful sorrows can't incline you, To weigh my sufferings with my real deserts? Can you then see me with a broken heart, Wretched, wand'ring, and forsook by all, Except th' insulting rabble at my heels: And as pinching need or thirst or hunger, Shall make me seek relief from door to door, Perhaps receive harsh language and reproach, Instead of succour to supply my wants. Then after all the mis'ries of the day, Soon as th' unwholesome night brings on its dews, Under some dropping eve, or leafless hedge, Shiv'ring and almost starv'd with piercing cold, Repose my weary limbs, with toil fatigu'd.