Make ends meet

joy and rest; Still is she wont some new disguise to wear, She may as house

and court, as wife and child appear, As dagger, poison, fire and flood;

Imagined evils chill thy blood,

And what thou ne'er shall lose, o'er that dost shed the tear. I am not like the

gods! Feel it I must; I'm like the earth - worm, writhing in the dust, Which, as

on dust it feeds, its native fare, Crushed 'neath the passer's tread, lies buried

Is it not dust, wherewith this lofty wall, With hundred shelves, confines me

round; Rubbish, in thousand shapes, may I not call What in this moth - world