Else whence this anxious hope, this thirst of gain,
This longing after Faro, Whist, Quadrille?
But whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of staking all I’m worth? Why shrinks my soul?
Does Reason’s secret impulse strive to shake
My firm resolve of going to a drum!
No:—’Tis last night’s ill run at which I start;
’Tis want of gold that dictates stay at home,
And intimates ’twere better not to play.
Must I not play? Oh, serious hated thought!