Such pain as mine can never sleep!—
Zounds! as I live, another’s gone!
For unrequited love brings grief,—
A needle, wife, and bring your scissors.
And Pity’s voice gives no relief—
The child! good Lord! he’s at my razors!
No balm to case the troubled heart,—
Who starched this bosom? I declare
That writhes from hate’s envenomed dart!—
It’s enough to make a parson swear!