Man alive, that mournst thy lot, Desiring what thou hast not got, Money, beauty, love, what not; Deeming it blesseder to be A rotted man, than live to see So rude a sky as covers thee; Deeming thyself of all unblest And wretched souls the wretchedest, Longing to die and be at rest; Know: that however grim the fate Which sent thee forth to meditate Upon my enviable state, Here lieth one who would resign Gladly his lot, to shoulder thine. Give me thy coat; get into mine.