The last invitation anybody would accept is “Come, let us weep together.” If we keep melancholy at our house, we should be careful to have it under lock and key, so that no one will observe it.
I’ve no use for you, by Golly!
Yet I’m going to keep you hidden
In some chamber dark, forbidden,
Just as though you were a prize, sir,
Made of gold, and I a miser—
Not because I think you jolly,
Not for that I mean to hoard you,
Keep you close and lodge and board you
As I would my sisters, brothers,
Cousins, aunts, and old grandmothers,
But that you shan’t bother others
With your sniffling, snuffling folly,
John Kendrick Bangs.