You flattered me and offered promise of success.
Was ever truth caught in verse and rhyme
But roguish voices try to worm the conscience
Or excite ambition for profit's sake and greed
And money's hollow grace? To you, the instrument,
So coolly flattering with a smiling tongue, I say,
Behind me for I know your voice and mien.
Death cares not for greed nor wealth nor fame.
A quiet grave in a chestnut grove will be
Enough to keep me quiet and content.
For you will meet that fate as well as me.
Your bones with rot despite all protests.
Nor money, wealth nor pleading will avail
And your reward like mine will be to fail.