The Good Conceit

Out of the cloud that covers me And blots the stars and seldom lifts, I thank whatever gods may be For my indubitable gifts. Under the whip, upon the setts, Men drive me many a galling mile; My stock of editors' regrets Would fill a barrow, but -- I smile. Fast by this trade of wind and wit I mean to hold till life be done, And every year I stay in it Finds, and shall find me, tugging on. It matters not how stiff and sheer The climb -- how difficult the sum, I am the man they've got to hear! I am the man that's bound to come!