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Charlotte Smith - Sonnet LXXIII. To A Querulous Acquaintance
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THOU! whom Prosperity has always led
O`er level paths, with moss and flow`rets strewn;
For whom she still prepares a downy bed
With roses scatter`d, and to thorns unknown,
Wilt thou yet murmur at a misplaced leaf?
Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine,
How many, born with feelings keen as thine,
Taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief;
How many steep in tears their scanty bread; 
Or, lost to reason, Sorrow`s victims! rave:
How many know not where to lay their head;
While some are driven by anguish to the grave!
Think; nor impatient at a feather`s weight,
Mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate!
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