Sev’ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door;
Took the gin out, fill’d the kettle; and with a sang froid to nettle
Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,
Really as he meant departing at the date I named before,
Of never, never more!
Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking
In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he’d find my door
Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that door