That it shall sicken, wither, starve and die
From lack of sustenance!
Rare vows, and rarely kept, I make no doubt!
Why, man, you break them every day you live;
You break them when you weep upon the grave
Of broken hopes and blighted sympathies—
Of wrecked ambitions, and the hundred tombs
That crowd this solitary sepulchre!
You break them when you let your memory loose
To revel in the rich, ripe luxury