Into the garner should thy burial be 

 Beldv'd and wept of all." 

 Mournful arose 

 The sorrowful response. 

 "Oh that my grief 

 Were in the balance laid by faithful hands 

 And feeling hearts. To the afflicted soul 

 Friends should be comforters. But mine have dealt 

 Deceitfully, as fails the shallow brook 

 When summer's need is sorest. 

 Did I say 

 Bring me a gift? or from your flowing wealth 

 Give solace to my desolate penury? 

 Or with your pitying influence neutralize 

 My cup of scorn poured out by abject hands? 

 That thus ye mock me with contemptuous words 

 And futile arguments, and dig a pit 

 In which to whelm the man you call a friend? 

 Still darkly hinting at some heinous sin 

 Mysteriously concealed? 

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