I've that within—for which there are no plasters!
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying?
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!
And if she goes, my tears will never stop;
for as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all—shall lose my bread—I'd
rather—but that's nothing—lose my head
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,