A collection of scots poems on several occasions ::

There is a wretch, the greatest wretch alive,
Eager for gold, yet wants the art to thrive.
This devil of a man, with magic spell
Torments himself and antedates his hell.

Still pain'd with some imaginary loss,
And he before he wants, will coin a cross.
His mind and he are at perpetual strife,
So loses all the sweets, and dear delights of life,
A constant gloom sits on his lab'ring brow,
He speaks in broken sentences to you.
Five hundred pounds per annum gives this squire,
Five hundred faggots to augment the fire.
This hour he fears some charter has a flaw,
Next session will be casten at the law.
His infant heir will spend what he has gain'd,
And thus, like Ixion, to the wheel he's chain'd.
His growing girl will rob him of his pelf,
And chuse some brawny bankrupt for herself,
Perhaps his wife with horns will plant his head,
And bastards shall succeed him when he's dead.
Corns will be cheaper in the coming years,
So he'll be ruin'd quite with modest fiars.
The reverse of good nature and good sense,
Who will not trust a groat to providence.
Happy the easy man devoid of care,
Lives on his stock, and seeks supply by pray'r:
By prudent methods seeks a fair estate,
Nor doth he sink to meet with adverse fate.

University of Virginia Library

The Self-tormentor.