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	When Bringhurst and Wilkins are here
	Diffusing the smiles of content
	My bosom shall banish its fear
	My sorrow shall quickly relent.

	No longer be moistened the eye
	The hours no longer in weeping
	Be spent, nor the eloquent sigh
	No longer prevent me from sleeping.

	No longer embellish the page
	With emblems of gloomy despair
	Or struggle to temper its rage
	Or lighten the burthen of care.

	With accents of musical woe
	Attuned to the voice of the flute
	In teaching Æolus to blow
	Or vocalizing the lute.

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	But sitting securely together
	We order the door to be shut
	We pass from the news and the weather
	To shuffle, to deal, and to cut.

	In tale of fictitious distress
	In study or converse the day—
	At ombre or chequers or chess
	The even shall vanish away.