Sour Grapes

The course my life sometime appears to follow Permits not that the bark be called inept, Like to the devil’s hand which maketh hollow The banks wherein our precious coins are kept. For those to whom the poorest cards are dealt Have no control o’er what they do receive; Thus is their condition more keenly felt When up against those fortune doth reprieve. In love must I be likewise reconciled To destinies that concur not with will; And wherefore say others I must be mild, When such a hole no other peg may fill? ‘Tis easy to envisage pain forgotten When of none ill were they themselves begotten.