Jane Austen

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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.