"Sonnet to Ingratitude." by Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800)
He that's ungrateful, has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
I COULD have borne affliction's sharpest thorn;
The sting of malice–poverty's deep wound;
The sneers of vulgar pride, the idiot's scorn;
Neglected Love, false Friendship's treach'rous sound;
I could, with patient smile, extract the dart
Base calumny had planted in my heart;
The fangs of envy; agonizing pain;
ALL, ALL, nor should my steady soul complain:
E'en had relentless FATE, with cruel pow'r,
Darken'd the sunshine of each youthful day;
While from my path she snatch'd each transient flow'r.
Not one soft sigh my sorrow should betray;
But where INGRATITUDE'S fell poisons pour,
HOPE shrinks subdued–and LIFE'S BEST JOYS DECAY.