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When stretch’d on one’s bed With a fierce-throbbing head, Which preculdes 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 nor 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.
Jane Austen’s other poems:
