Upon a faggot set, with pipe in hand and pot.Loins 'gainst a chimney-back disconsolately leant,Soul in revolt and eyes to earth in sadness bent,I chew the cruel cud of my inhuman lot.
Hope, till to-morrow's sun that, will I, will I not.Still puts me off, essays to temper my lamentAnd promising me still my fortune's betterment,O'er th'emperor of Rome would raise me up, poor sot.
But scarcely is the weed to ashes burned awayThan needs forthright I must my high estate down-layAnd all my old annoys pass over in my mind.
Nay, when all's weighed, in fine, I find but little scopeOf difference between tobaccoing and hope;The one is only smoke; the other is but wind.
