The poem
Love, banish'd Heav'n, on Earth was held in scorn, Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary, And wanting friends, though of a Goddess born, Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by. I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest, With sighs and tears still furnishing his table With what might make the miserable blest. But this ungrateful, for my good desert, Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart, And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold.