Many a sweetly-scented Sin
Whispers. Many a bright-wreathed Folly,
Finding its roses turned to holly,
Seeks with Pleasure’s aid to fend
That Boredom which is Folly’s end.
Wherefore the violins make moan.
For these “the visible world” alone
Exists; and “ah that it should pass!”
They cry, and fill a trembling glass.
“Here’s to Beauty!” (surnamed Lust)