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When stretch'd on one's bed
With a fierce-throbbing head,
Which precludes alike thought or repose,
How little one cares
For the grandest affairs
That may busy the world as it goes!
How little one feels
For the waltzes and reels
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball!
How slight one's concern
To conjecture or learn
What their flounces or hearts may befall.
How little one minds
If a company dines
On the best that the Season affords!
How short is one's muse
O'er the Sauces and Stews,
Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.
How little the Bells,
Ring they Peels, toll they Knells,
Can attract our attention or Ears!
The Bride may be married,
The Corse* may be carried
And touch not* our hopes nor our fears.
Our own bodily pains
Ev'ry faculty chains;
We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease
We the power must seize
For our friends and our souls to provide.
This poem is in the public domain.
*Various printings of this poem show this word as "nor." I believe this to be
a typographical error that has been erroneously passed on. Contextually,
the word "not" makes sense, while "nor" does not, so "not" is what I have
chosen to use here. "Corse," on the other hand, is not an error. It is an
archaic form of the word "corpse," well in keeping with Jane's vocabulary..
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