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Poem	A mattock high he swung; I watched him at his toil; With never gulp of lung He gashed the ruddy soil. Thought I, I'd give my wealth To have his health. With fortune I would part, And privilege resign, Could I but have his heart, And he have mine . . . Then suddenly I knew My wish was true. Like him I swung: with awe He marked my steady breath. Then suddenly I saw That he was sick to death. My heart in him was frail And seemed to fail. Said I: 'Take back your heart And I will bear with mine. Poor lad! All wealth apart 'Tis murder I design, Not all a Nabob's wealth Is worth your health.'
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