LXV.

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,[596] 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.