She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner, Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.-- One evening--'twas just as the clock struck eleven-- They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,-- She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven, And all was o'er!-- Poor Therèse was no more-- She was gone!--the last breath that she managed to draw Escaped in one half-utter'd word--'twas "St. Foix!" * * * * * Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares, when you feel 'em, Are not cured by travel--as Horace says, "_Cœlum Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare!_" It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary-- Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded, is A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his; It haunts you for ever--in bed and at board,-- Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems, Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored! It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few, --François Xavier Auguste was an instance--can do. Indeed, from the time He committed the crime Which cut off poor Sister Therèse in her prime, He was not the same man that he had been--his plan Was quite changed--in wild freaks he no more led the van; He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking, From company shrinking-- He quite gave up drinking. At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came, Fish, _fricassee_, _fricandeau_, _potage_, or game, _Dindon aux truffes_, or _turbot à la crême_, No!--he still shook his head,--it was always the same, Still he never complained that the cook was to blame! 'Twas his appetite fail'd him--no matter how rare And _recherché_ the dish, how delicious the fare,-- What he used to like best he no longer could bear; But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair: Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair; Such a shirt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare. He omitted to shave;--he neglected his hair, And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.