That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still,—
  Though why take count of every wind that blows!
’T was plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill
  That year,—the self-same year I met with Rose.

Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, treasure, land,
  Slipped from my hold—thus plenty comes and goes.
One friend I had, but he too loosed his...