When The Age Is In, The Wit

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

They May Seize On The White Wonder Of Dear Juliet's Hand And Steal Immortal Blessing From Her Lips, Who, Even In Pure And Vestal Modesty, Still Blush, As Thinking Their Own Kisses Sin.

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!

Wise Men Never Sit And Wail Their Loss, But Cheerily Seek How To Redress Their Harms.