’Twas the last I heard about her, and since then I’m much in dread
That’s she’s married to another man, or else she must “gone dead.”
In despair, I declare, I is crack’d, that’s a fact.
But fretting won’t do, &c.
Now I go about, down in the mouth, and stockings down at heel;
Like Massa Shakspeare’s Hamlet, too. I’m touch’d up here I feel.
His uncle gave him good advice—mine took my clothes in pawn;
And all to raise the cash to dress—deceitful ’Tilda Horn.
Oh! this wool I could pull, this poor heart is so full.
But fretting won’t do, &c.