Lord of , I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'm so wretched, my Friend must rehearse;
For I never can write my Vexations in Verse.
Disappointments are sent to poor Mortals to show,
'Tis in vain to expect to be happy below.
Yet you've a fair Prospect, it must be confess'd,
Who with Fortune, and Station, and  are bless'd;
With , whose Soul is so fitted for you,
Who shares, with such Pleasure, the Good which you do;
Who visits your  with far other Designs,
Than conning your Rent-rolls, and raising your Fines.