Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,
And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach,
But as the mist of vanity again
Is blown away, by press of present pain,
Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies
For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies;
Then to her task she sighing turns again -
“Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!”
And who that poor, consumptive, wither’d thing,
Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing?