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56 “More?” cried the husband, half asleep,
 * “You’ll drive me to despair;”

The lady was too proud to weep,
 * And too polite to swear.

She bit her lip for very spite,
 * He felt a storm was brewing,

And dreamed of nothing else all night,
 * But brokers, banks, and ruin.

He thought her pretty once, but dreams
 * Have sure a wondrous power,

For to his eye the lady seems
 * Quite altered since that hour;

And Love, who on their bridal eve
 * Had promised long to stay,

Forgot his promise, took French leave,
 * And bore his lamp away.