Is life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most ’tis a footstep from cradle to coffin,—
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.
Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny!
I see you, except for that infantine woe,
Scarce changed since you were but a small pic-a-ninny,—
Your cheek is still velvet—pray what is your toe?
Aye, here is your cradle! much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped;
But, hark! as I’m talking there’s six o’clock striking,
It is time Jenny’s Baby should be in its bed!
O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!
“O cruel Time! O tyrant Time!
Whose winter all the streams of rhyme,
The flowing waves of Love sublime,
In bitter passage freezes.
I only see the scrambling goat,
The lotos on the water float,
While an old shepherd with an oat
Pipes to the autumn breezes.”Mr M. Collins.
Yes! here, once more, a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,
Receive me with a grin:
They surely can’t remember me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I’m chang’d, so chang’d since I was here—
“O tempora mutantur!”
The Angel’s not much alter’d since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honey-moon!
I recollect it down to e’en
The shape of this decanter.
We’ve since been both much put about—
“O tempora mutantur!”
Aye, there’s the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vow’d her Love was very fair—
I see I’m very plain.
And there’s that daub of Prince Leboo,
’Twas Pamela’s fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
“O tempora mutantur!”