Fie, thou scurrilous, jealous Knave!

A bitter, hungry heart, yet unfufilled

That empty, rails against the sweet lark's trill

And dull, disputes the morning's piercing light.

And rails and cries, because he lives in Night!

This is a soul no Saint shall ever save,

But ever shall remain benighted Knave.



Lancastar Pettiweather Fields
The Sorry Plight of Bastard People
Shropshire Collections, 1819