When you rise to greet old Phœbus with a booming in your head,
And your temples throb and threaten straight to burst;
When your tongue feels like a doormat and your eyelids feel like lead,
And your throat is dry and parched with burning thirst;
When your eyeballs shun the light;
And the sunshine seems a blight,
You may moan your luck, and wish you'd ne'er been weaned,