I hurried to drown both myself and my woes.
Down life's sunny stream many seasons I'd floated
Till pleasures now bored me, on which I had doted;
So I vowed that my death should by lovers be quoted
Where the pale, sentimental asparagus grows.
Alas! I exclaim'd, with a half-broken hiccup,
The soft crumbs of comfort no more can I pick up;
My sorrows are mix'd as it were in a tea-cup,
Without any sugar to take off the taste.