That manhood's mirth?--Oh, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when--_plays_,
And see _how forced_ our fun!


XVIII.

Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!--
_Our_ tops are spun with coils of care,
Our _dumps_ are no delight!--
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!


XIX.

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead
Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!


XX.

Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!