Under what constellation was I born,
That I on every side to mischief turn,
No step, or motion, that I ever make,
But I misfortunes meet, or overtake,
'Tis true, our lives are warfar since the fall,
Yet some have little comforts mix'd withall,
If fate wou'd make me but one small advance
I shu'd forget the rest of my ill chance
Like a fond wife who one kind look receives,
All past offences, in her spous forgives,
Some blame their fate, that comforts are but short,
But I'd be glad of them, of any sort.
But of such hardships my poor lot is made,
That if some joy, my griefs, seem to invad,
It proves but misery in masquerade.
For no small gleam, guilds my lives hemisphere,
But it proclaims, some thunder storm is near
Why was I born, or why, a femel born? passionatly
Or why not piece-meal, from my mother torn?
Or did I not with teeth or Rickets dy,
Or other accedents, of infancy,
Or why not lame, hump-back'd, pock-broken face,
Or else in morals infamous and base,
Or ne'er had being, amongst human race
Had I been lewd, unfaithfull or unjust,
To friend or lover, or betray'd my trust.
I then might well expect the lot I have:
But not for being, vertuous, chast; and grave.
That I complain, or murmur, heav'n forgive,
These pills, perhaps are healthfull purgative,
Assist me patiently to take the dose
And give me strength to bear my weighty cross.