Heavenly Lord, my dreams are big,
Too big perhaps for mine own britches,
Yet I, as one locked in the brig,
Feel dearth nor I can jerryrig--

Nor I can build, as on their riches
The wealthy merely but compound,
For I have naught, save flimsy stitches
Patching these rags, as hide mine itches.

Desires may swell till I have swound,
Yet not in a pursuit of them
Would I be caught; yet, human, bound
Am I to my familiar ground.

So to obtain by stratagem,
Were ’t possible, were periwig
Upon the poet’s soul—me hem
Obstacles as to fear condemn.