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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XXIX
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TO HER WHO WOULD COMFORT HIM
 I did not ask your pity, dear. Your zeal
 I know. It cannot cure me of my woes.
 And you, in your sweet happiness, who knows,
 Deserve it rather I should pity feel
 For what the coming years from you conceal.
 I did but cry, thou dear Samaritan,
 Out of my bitterness of soul. Each man
 Has his own sorrow treading on his heel,
 Ready to strike him, and must keep his shield
 To his own back. Fate`s arrows thickly fly,
 And, if they strike not now, will strike at even.
 And so I ask no pity. On life`s field
 The wounded crawl together, but their cry
 Is not to one another but to Heaven.
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