Are, killing sorrow and starvation!
Pleasant visions—but, alas
How those pleasant visions pass!
If you care for what I say,
You're an April fool to-day.
Last, to myself, when night comes round me,
And the soft chain of thought has bound me,
I whisper, "Sir, your eyes are killing—
You owe no mortal man a shilling—
You never cringe for star or garter,