A watchful eye on the beloved heap;
Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,
And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will;
Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,
They make their grief, by their suspicions, known.
"Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,
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He'd rave to see you throw your cards away;
Not that I care a button—not a pin
For what I lose; but we had cards to win: