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 And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme: Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest His notes remain—the wise can guess the rest.

For two whole days they were the common talk; The party, and the failure, and all that, The theme of loungers in their morning walk, Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat. The third, some newer wonder came to blot them, And on the fourth, the "meddling world" forgot them.

Anxious, however, something to discover, I passed their house—the shutters were all closed; The song of knocker and of bell was over; Upon the steps two chimney-sweeps reposed; And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met These cabalistic words—"this house to let."