So sad, so sure, the Bills that are to bore.
Ah, sad (not strange) as on dreary winter morns.
The surliest knock of half-impatient dun
To drowsy ears, ere, watched by drowsy eyes,
The tailor slowly goes across the square;
So sad, so very sad, the bills that are in store.
Drear as repeated hisses at your Play.
And drear as dreams by indigestion caused
To those that take hot suppers; dull as law,
Dull as dry law, and lost without regret;