I have felt the slings of Fortune’s might,

His crooked knife plunged deep into my side;

The venom spewed from his black-mouthed spite

Devised to taint all minds with poison plied.

I have seen him light false fires of hope

To lead brave reinforcements far astray

And battered men in grim surrender grope

For mercy—while their pleading found no stay.

Still I survived and not the worse it seems—

Nay, wiser more, though long the gauntlet lashed;

For oft scorned virtue, in the end redeems

Whatever wicked lies false tongues have passed.

Mark well how Fortune hides her treacherous guise—

To deck her wrongs in virtue’s borrowed prize.