He penn’d a billet, very far from doux,
’Twas sour, severe—but think of a man’s smart
Writing with lunar caustic on his heart!
The letter done and closed, he lit his taper,
And sealing, as it were, his other mocks,
He stamped a grave device upon the paper,
No Cupid toying with his Psyche’s locks,
But some stern head of the old Stoic stocks—
Then, fiercely striding through the staring streets,
He dropt the bitter missive in a box,