And pain, and ten thousand things more—
O, I wish it were my turn to-morrow!
But, perchance, in that sleep we may dream,
For we dream in our beds very often—
Now, however capricious ’t may seem,
I’ve no notion of dreams in a coffin.
Ri-tol-de-rol, etc.
’Tis the doubt of our ending all snugly,
That makes us with life thus dispute,
For who’d bear with a wife old and ugly,