Loved less his favorite, Haydn; but we both
Were still so young. And he, poor man, who earn’d
With all his toil not much, had form’d a plan
(As one might form a rosary, stringing beads,
Then spending all his hours in counting them),
Where hung bright hopes, but strung on flimsy thread,—
Mere lint, brush’d off a worldling’s flattery,
That I for wealth should wed. So, like a gem
For future pride, he lock’d me up in school.