In the Exchequer’s hindmost row,
I sat, and some one touch’d my head,
He tendered ten-and-six, but oh!
That only client now is dead.
In vain, I try to sing—I’m hoarse:
In vain I try to play the flute,
A phantom seems to flit across,—
It is the ghost of a compute.
I try to read—but all in vain;
My chambers listlessly I tread;