I've made thieves in the candle to move him to thinking;
I have clatter'd my casements and chairs to confound 'em;
I have let in the dews and the blast all around 'em;
I have elbow'd my timbers 'gainst many a head;
I have stirr'd up the sewers to stink 'em to bed:
Yet this mass of antipathy marr'd my own liver,
And my tears fill'd the gutter like Egypt's deep river.
—My eyes, my dear Coz, are exhausted with crying;
So I'll give o'er at present—I'm yours till I'm dying.
'Pavilion.'