Cogitated very sadly, brain and bone and heart were sore,
For no gold came by his toiling, unkind fate seemed ever foiling
All his toilsome, weary efforts, and the keeper of the store
Had pitilessly stopped his credit; quoth the keeper of the store,
“I can’t tucker you no more.”
Wild and gloomy thoughts were tumbling through his head and set him grumbling,
And his voice in accents mumbling ’gan the harsh fates to implore,
That they’d come to some decision, either make him some provision,
Or at once their utmost fury on his willing head outpour—
“Either make me some provision, or your deadliest vials pour”—