Comfort!—talk to me of comfort! What is comfort here below?
Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?
Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wail of all his vows the proof,
Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof.
See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,
Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!
Thou shalt hear "Hot Codlins" muttered in his vision-haunted sleep,
Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep.
Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe,
But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I'd better go!—