At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill,
A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted,
A bad old woman making a worse will,
Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted
As certain;—these are paltry things, and yet
I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret.
I 'm a philosopher; confound them all!
Bills, beasts, and men, and—no! not womankind!
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall,
And then my stoicism leaves nought behind