Conditions of pleasure and pain,
Oh Heaven! Here are these maladetti
Mosquitos again!
The poet should ever be placid.
Oh vex not his soul or his skin!
Shall I stink them with carbolic acid?
It is done and afresh I begin.
Lucid orbs!—that last sting very sore is;
I am fain to leave off, I am fain;
It has given me uncommon dolores—