JOHN FARRELL.
Dead? I suppose so! And what does it matter?
I sleep well, anyway—and what’s the odds?
Isn’t it perfect calm we give the gods?
—And calm is best, in spite of all the chatter.
I don’t know that I’d care to grow much fatter,
Duller and wearier—keep on pickling rods
To beat old age with. So, as who’s-this nods,
The earlier end is better than the latter.
Besides, I’ve done my share of hurrying:
Let others take the pace—I won’t be missed:
P’r’aps two or three will think of me—say one,
To save me from the fate of Tomlinson—
You know it? Fine thing? … Well, I won’t insist . .
Then that’s all right—and what’s the use of worrying?
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