Sure to be wishing still, is still to grieve;
And proves the man or poor, or much a slave.
Will none the wretched crawling thing regard,
Who stoops so very low, and begs so hard?
call this meanness, and the wretch despise;
Alas! he stoops to soar, and sinks to rise:
Now on the knee, now on the wing is found,
As insects spring with vigour from the ground.