O' what I hate in this depraved world more

Than not to have a tongue to say the truth.

Beguile myself to have my eye a sore;

And act a deaf to pleas for genuine ruth.

What in this world more I tend to despise

Than to have quenched my thirst with others' tears.

A saint on act but a fiend in disguise,

To find a solace built by others' fears.

Which feeling in my heart more I detest

Than to have a will, but no hands to do;

And agony in my eyes manifest,

When others suffer in place of my due.

Sometimes I wonder if god do exist,

Then why bad ones not on his penance list.