Oh Muse of my heart—so fond of palaces old,
Wilt have—when New Year speeds its wintry blast,
Amid those tedious nights, with snow o'ercast,
A log to warm thy feet, benumbed with cold?
Wilt thou thy marbled shoulders then revive
With nightly rays that through thy shutters peep?
And—void thy purse and void thy palace—reap
A golden hoard within some azure hive?
Thou must, to earn thy daily bread, each night,
Suspend the censer like an acolyte,
Te-Deums sing, with sanctimonious ease,
Or as a famished mountebank, with jokes obscene
Essay to lull the vulgar rabble's spleen;
Thy laughter soaked in tears which no one sees.