His morns he passed in business—which dissected,

Was, like all business, a laborious nothing

That leads to lassitude, the most infected

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,  ⁵⁹ And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good—

Which grows no better, though 't is time it should.