To M. P.

Like as the spotless Ermelin distress'd, 
Circumpass'd round with filth and loathsome mud, 
Pines in her grief, imprison'd in her nest, 
And cannot issue forth to seek her good, 
So I environ'd with a hateful want 
Look to the heav'ns, the heav'ns yield forth no grace; 
I search the earth, the earth I find as scant; 
I view my self, my self in woeful case. 
Heav'n nor earth will not, my self cannot work 
A way through want to free my soul from care; 
But I must pine, and in my pining lurk, 
Lest my sad looks bewray me how I fare. 
My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure 
Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.