FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought   That hour upon my morn of age; Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,   My part is ended on thy stage.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear   As little as I hope from thee: I know thou canst not show nor bear   More hatred than thou hast to me.

My tender, first, and simple years   Thou didst abuse and then betray; Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears,   When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted me   Where breathe the basest of thy fools; Where envious arts professed be,   And pride and ignorance the schools;

Where nothing is examined, weigh'd,   But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed; Where every freedom is betray'd,   And every goodness tax'd or grieved.

But what we're born for, we must bear:   Our frail condition it is such That what to all may happen here,   If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistake   To harbour a divided thought From all my kind—that, for my sake,   There should a miracle be wrought.

No, I do know that I was born   To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: But I will bear these with that scorn   As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far,   As wanderers do, that still do roam; But make my strengths, such as they are,   Here in my bosom, and at home.