I painted him till dewy eve,—
There never was a nobler face!
"Oh, sir," I said, "a fortune grand
Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—
To sport his brow at second-hand,
To wear his cast-off countenance!
"To rub his eyes whene'er they ache—
To wear his baldness ere you're old—
To clean his teeth when you awake—
To blow his nose when you've a cold!"