Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it,
I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my heart I've bound it!
Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shining glove,
Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and a little more than half a liver?
Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.
As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.