It was illusion all, and mockery vain.
Thus, comfortless, appall’d, forlorn, I pass
The tardy hours, nor of those viands taste,
Which are on other boys full oft bestow’d
In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand
Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart
Or trembling custard of delicious go˚t,
Or frothy syllabub in copious bowl.
Hard fate for me! Yet harder still betides
Me, hapless youth! My faithful top, that oft