LXXII



A Solon ponders till his Years are great
On Sway of Power and Magnitude of State,
Then in his Age he leaves the Questions to
The Wisdom of the Sweet Girl Graduate.



LXXIII



The Delphic Gaberdine avails me not
When Laurels fester into loathly Rot,
And in his starry Shroud the Poet starves
While growing Roses in a Cabbage Lot.



LXXIV



Forgive, ye Wise, the Oaf who nothing knows
And glories in the Bubbles that he blows,
And while you wrestle blindly with the World,
He whistles on his Fingers and his Toes.