But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
Humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable
John, Earl of Stair.
Mitchell, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand his tailor’s bill, with an expostulatory letter: pen, ink, and paper on the table by him.
It must be so—Tailor, thou reason’st well!—
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This earnest longing to discharge thy Bill?