Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.

Think not I am what I appear.