Man alive, that mournst thy lot,
Desiring what thou hast not got,
Money, beauty, love, what not;
Deeming it blesseder to be
A rotted man, than live to see
So rude a sky as covers thee;
Deeming thyself of all unblest
And wretched souls the wretchedest,
Longing to die and be at rest;
Know: that however grim the fate
Which sent thee forth to meditate
Upon my enviable state,
Here lieth one who would resign
Gladly his lot, to shoulder thine.
Give me thy coat; get into mine.
