For I'm burning all over with shame.
How lucky I am to possess
A kind friend to rely on, like you!
And—'tis shocking—I'm bound to confess
That my billets are all billets-do.
But to come to the point, dearest dear,—
Your affection will pardon it all—
You must know, the long thread of our year
Is wound up by an annual ball.
Only think! in this dismal abode