Injustice

I feel the sear of scorn upon my back
While toiling in the ever-scorching sun
Rude justice builds a home within my lap
How quick a sack-cloth life can come undone.
How noble those who silent-bore their grief
I ponder them, more sturdy-souled than I
A miser-king, miscounting all his gems
Whose self-sorry self doth self-consume.
For more have suffered more for sinning less
And they o'er me were nobler in their time
Who at the hands of rogues were treated worse
Less humanly for far more human crimes.
  As poverty of rogues revealed their wealth
  So ills borne gracefully proved their rude-health.