The whole wide earth seemed fashioned for your pleasure;
Its very heavens, gold-and-crystal skylights
Whereunder you picked orchid blooms at leisure.
For others, shadowed gloom; for you, the high lights—
The pomp, the pride, the dance’s twanging measure ...
And if one begged: “Take coin,” you’d say, “and toss it her.
Poor thing! That skirt was never cut by Rossiter.”
Dear, rotten days! And yet, a Jack grows wistful
At thoughts of all the Jills whom he remembers,
In times when he had boodle by the fist-full