BANKRUPT of joy, who once was rich in it,
Must drop pretence at last, no longer hide
Behind drawn blinds rooms ravished by distraint;
Swallow his pride,
And openly admit
His fortune spent.

That over, what remains? Only to sit
By a cold hearth, staring at a stripped wall,
And with humility make
His statement of account;
Recall
The past's transactions; rack the brain, and wonder
What accident, extravagance, or blunder
Frittered his pounds to pence
And brought so rich a heart to indigence.

Wonder in vain. It is too late to take
Remorseful vows.
This was a gracious and a lovely house:
But now its floors are bare,
And there are heavy footsteps on the stair.