You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the troubles of life
Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife.
That sounds silly; so perhaps you may mean that all is wrong all round—
My creed and the know-nothing books—and that truth is not to be found,
That’s sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right,
And you’re a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fight—
Too great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die,
Fit for nothing at all but just to sit down and cry.
Not that you’re really unhappy. I don’t think you ever were.
Give you a poet’s corner, and a pipe and an easy chair,