Haply some tavern waiter may declare,
“Oft have we seen him at the hour of ten
Sipping his coffee, with a mournful air,
Or holding sage discourse with learned men.
In yonder box, now moisten’d as with tears,
Conning his wayward verses he would sit;
Now sooth’d with hope, and now depress’d with fears,
He pour’d the wild effusions of his wit.
One morn we miss’d him at the ’custom’d place,
Nor at the bar, nor in the room was he: