In inky darkness I may bid varmouse.
Now on my brows my night-cap sets at ease;
My bruised arms no more my fire-arms seize;
No stern alarms to wake me from a nap,
To spring wild rattles, and revolvers snap;
Stern visaged war—Why, what am I about?
I did not come out, Richard III. to spout.
I am the father of a daughter dear,—
Dear! yes, she costs a thousand pounds a year.
They call her fair, they praise her auburn tresses,