My uncle, man of firm convictions...

By falling gravely ill, he's won

A due respect for his afflictions,

The only clever thing he's done.

May his example profit others;

But God, what deadly boredom, brothers,

Sits by the bed of the poor wretch

And never stirs to fetch or stretch!

And what ignoble speculations:

To entertain the half-alive,

Adjust his pillows, moan, contrive

To bring his medicine in libations,

Sigh, and reflect with mournful air:

'When will the devil take you, where?'