To see this world in thraldom to "the next."
'Tis this dull forethought, bent on future prizes,
That millionaires in gladness pauperises.
Far as the eye can reach, it blurs the age;
All rapture of the moment it destroys;
No one dares taste in peace life's simplest joys
Until he's struggled on another stage--
And there arriving, can he there repose?
No--to a new "next" off he flies again;
On, on, unresting to the grave he goes;
And God knows if there's any resting then.

MISS JAY.
Fie, Mr. Falk, such sentiments are shocking.

ANNA [pensively].
Oh, I can understand the feeling quite;
I am sure at bottom Mr. Falk is right.

MISS JAY [perturbed].
My Stiver mustn't listen to his mocking.
He's rather too eccentric even now.--
My dear, I want you.

STIVER [occupied in cleaning his pipe].
Presently, my dear.

GULDSTAD [to FALK].
One thing at least to me is very clear;--
And this is that you cannot but allow