Sonnet 3 (Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run)

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops runDown his dark cheek; hold—hold thy merciless hand,Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard commandO'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,As pityless as proud Prosperity,Darts on him his full beams; gasping he liesArraigning with his looks the patient skies,While that inhuman trader lifts on highThe mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your easeSip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like theseHaply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious GodThat I do feel upon my cheek the glowOf indignation, when beneath the rodA sable brother writhes in silent woe.