 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
210
MEANNESS.
Where vice is virtue, thou art still despised,O petty loathsome lust of hoarded pelf,
Ev'n in the pit where all things vile are prized
Still is there found in Lucifer himself
Spirit enough to hate thee, sordid thing:
Thank Heav'n! I own in thee nor lot nor part;
And though to many a fault and folly cling
The worse weak fibres of my weedy heart,
Yet to the dull temptation of thy sin
My instant welcome is, depart, depart!
For to my sense so foul and base thou art,
I would not stoop to thee this world to win:
Aroint thee, filching hand and heart of stone,
Thou art like Death, unsated selfish one!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |