I've sported life away,
And now am left forlorn.

Poor fool! I dreamt the years
Of youth would never fly,
And pleasure's brimming bowl
Methought could ne'er run dry.

That woman's bounteous love
Should e'er wax cold for me!
It seem'd that she must first
A woman cease to be.

Her fondest smiles I thought
My rights by charter were;
Her sighs, her tears, forsooth,--
Whilst I--was free as air.

I've knelt at many a shrine,
Of wit and beauty too;
I've lisp'd light vows to all,
And sworn that all were true.

My pastime was to gain
Their young and grateful love,
Then break the heart I won,
And straight to others rove.

Ah! wild wit, now at last
Thy vagrancies are o'er;