Do not naysay my gratitude: should I naysay your fire and food? I cannot hide my thanks to thee – ah, no, my dear Protector, see, I tell the world my dire distress, uncovered in my nakedness! And wish it that the world may know I did not flinch; for I can show two lots of earthly pain, at least, at this, the world’s all-sumptuous feast! For poverty ne’er broke my youth, or cracked the brittle branch of truth. And wish it that the world may see my beard is not the all of me! I have my heart, I have my song, that smile when troubles come along. I have my guiding soul, whose fee is unretreating victory! And wish the world may understand that with no buckler in my hand, no Lordship or no Kingly place, no Gentleman’s too-flattering face, no Usurer’s ill-gotten gains – I am no Byron for my pains. I write no elegies for Courts amidst their lusts and wastrel sports, no hymns to Gods do I rehearse, no lady’s thigh displays my verse that springs from wealth and gluttony: my song is of my poverty.

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