The poor illiterate, chill'd by freezing want,
Within whose walls pale Penury still sits,
With icy hand impressing every meal,
Cannot divide his slender hard-earn'd mite
Betwixt his bodily and mental wants;
The soul must go — for hunger loudly pleads,
And Nature will be answer'd; thus his race,
Envelop'd, groping, sink in vulgar toils;
To eat and sleep includes the soul's best wish;
And mean deceit, and treacherous, low-phras'd guile,
Fill the vast space for better purpose given.